#They are drenched in tragedy but I need for them to be happy despite it all | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

muffindaddystyles · 3 years

Note

Soft dom harry makes subby reader upset subspace?

MEANIE ANGRY H :D BUCKLE UP FELLAS

Y/N's day is been shitty so far. It started with an ache in her lower abdomen from Harry’s morning stiffy bulging against her asscheeks fattening everytime he snuggled into her to hoard her warmth and blankies and to stuff his face in her neck with incoherent blabbering.

She wanted to wake him up with her hand, mouth, hole— anything around his cock and to please him and dull the burny feeling in her tummy -- but -- she had an important workshop at UNI that was must needed to be attended.

The time she managed to knock herself out of her needy and lusty headspace, she was getting late and whirling around the room and closest like a thunderstorm -- burying a snoring Harry under the heaps of clothes and littering the floor with her shoes collection, the kitchen got treated much more worst with maids being not around (she’s used to Harry waking up earlier than her and making her a full course brekkie) after making a laughable ruckus of cabinets all she stuffed her mouth with was a chocolate protein bar.

The stars were still not in her favour. She was grabbing onto her hair until far when she missed the bus (she usually don’t take buses, Harry makes sure the driver drop her off safe and secure) and it started raining leaving Y/N with nothing but a bare head to take all of it as she already left the bus shelter to stop a taxi.

If all of that wasn’t much of a tragedy and humiliating, Y/N slipped the moment she stepped out of the vehicle and on the slippery curbs of the building, she saw her life flashing right infront of her eyes as the papers tucked in her armpit fled everywhere and landed on the rainy mud sadistically along her. It gave her a serious hit in her ankle and completely yanked her hip, still being a stubborn-head she picked herself and went inside despite how many glares the cleaning staff threw her way for bringing the dirt with her feed all over the shiny floors.

She felt bad.

Stupidly bad.

Her workshop teachers were kind enough to accept her late arrival, but her designs for fall got rejected and they’d have been a huge milestone for her to get her dream internship.

Y/N felt awfully, teeny, pathetic and little while slumping into the corner of the bus and holding her breath to refrain from crying these little liquidy bitches out of her eyes.

Reaching back home she was met with pure chaos, bumping into petrified and agitated employs from Harry’s company scurrying out of their main foyer and she could persist but to ask what happened only to be informed in stammers that the staff messed up big and caused a loss of million dollars— making Harry terribly mad and fire people left and right.

It wasn’t a joke at all.

Because once, she steps inside, bag falling from her shoulder as she sighs in exhaustion feeling her muscles stiffening everywhere but one particular spot's hurting wrenchingly— her foggy mind couldn’t figure it out yet. She peeks into Harry’s home office to be met by a very annoyed, aggrieved, furious Harry pacing in his office all whilst with a phone against his ear shouting at someone who was destined to be humiliated today just like her and she pouts gingerly seeing his features skewered tightly into displeasure, the vein that curves along his temple prominent with blood pumping erratically in his body.

His head snaps up at the door’s creak and albeit his eyes softens a little, the kink of brows and the scowl on his lips is still there and he watches her paddle towards him carefully knowing anything at the moment would burst his chimneys out and she wants to be good for her daddy.

“Hi.” She speaks timidly, pout getting more rusty when the greetings not returned and instead he keeps all of his attention on the phone keeping a loose arm around her.

She grumbles, when he gestures down at her to give him a sec and untangles himself from her walking away and huffing and puffing into the phone.

How could he!

She feels so denied and rejected and kicked like it’s done to those affection starved lil puppies.

Her clingy tendencies flying high drunk and wooly. The needy beastie inside her wanting nothing more than take a bath where Harry could cream her back in her favourite berry bubbles, massaging her head and whisper sweet nothings into her ear, then lots and lots of cuddles, maybe he'll be generous enough and let her keep him snug inside her while they watch movie because she had such an awful day.

But, No! He's trying to escape free from her because she’s such a burden for him now.

Her eyes turns glassy, her shoulders slumping sadly and out of nowhere she’s feeling cold and barren as Harry’s voice becomes a wafting fume for her— an indication she has gone under too much.

“Daddy . . .” She stomps behind him, circling his footsteps like a whiny puppy and grapples at his dress shirt gasping sullenly when he swats her dainty hands away and glares down at her in dominance, his tone harsh as he blocks the receiver with his palm and mouths at her with a huff, “Stop being needy fo’ once. I’ve clearly some important issues to care for, Y/N.” Poor Y/N's deathly grip on his shirt loosens sorrowfully and her chin wobbles as she nodded still wanting to be good for him and if it wasn’t enough to give her the biggest heartbreak of the year— he even rolled his eyes at her too grumping under his breath about something how he turned her into a spoiled brat himself.

“Okie. . .” Her voice strangled and small. She shrinks into herself but wasn’t paid any heed from Harry and without another word she leaves him as to be it.

Having a huge breakdown in her room didn’t help at all. A painful headache hitting her like a train as she clumsily strips down, wearing one of his t-shirt heavily drenched in his scent he keeps for her under her pillow anytime she needs it and hides under the blankets with tears still running down her swollen cheeks— slipping into a light slumber from all of weariness and crying.

Once the smoke cleared from Harry’s mind and his capabilities of rational thinking coming back to him, he was reminded of how he denied his baby of his littlest of affection and tenderness when she clearly looked so glum and sad and upset.

He wanted to whip himself in head.

He’s such a twat that he let work come between them.

He curses himself. Making a sprint to his bedroom, knowing he’d find her none other than there and he was right puffing out a disheartened sigh when his eyes falls over his princess buried under all of these layers of blankets, he crawls up towards her carefully not to startle her awake.

Grunting at himself when he finds she’s been crying, he strokes a thumb up her blushy cheeks and her wet lashes, kissing her puffy eyelids and her little sad unhappy pout away.

He frowns. Feeling her feverish and flushed under his hand, “Hey puppy . . .” He thumbs down her throat getting a little fretful when she doesn’t stirs, however she’s such a squirmy little one and he moves the blankets away to let her body cool itself smiling proudly at his shirt swallowing her whole is when she snuggled herself more into her stuffie letting the shirt ride up her thighs and hips exposing a ghastly bruise of red and purples and he frowns not remembering it being there before.

Now. He feels shittier. Wanting to jump of the cliff for being a shitty sadist boyfriend to his only beloved.

“No!” Y/N whimpers loudly, squirming away from his touch as he examines her gently and it sent shockwaves to each of her tissues and lions causing her an undeniable pain.

“Puppy, shh, shh. ‘s just me, making sure if y'okay.” He scrambles closer to her towering her to cradle her face and kiss the tip of her nose—- his face falls drastically and his heart cracks miserly when Y/N pushes him away with a sorrowful mumble not even letting him wipe the drool away from the corner of her mouth as he usually does.

“’M okay . . .” She tries to knuckle the sleepiness away with shivery hands, “No you’re not —...” He’s cut off by her angry pout and her silly efforts to keep as much distance between them as possible, “I don’t need, Daddy . . ‘m big and I could take care of me self.” At her puny waver realization dawns upon Harry and his brows shoots up to his hairline feeling nauseous and terrible for not taking care of his babylove earlier.

He’d have never let her be away from him if he knew she was in her subspace.

“Y/N baby . . . I didn’t mean it, darling —--...” With gentleness he tries to approach her but she wraps her arms around her petite figure in a protective manner, haziness taking best of her and Harry’s chest suffocates into itself, being a dom it’s your responsibility to make your subby feel protected, loved and happy and he even failed at that.

He quickly cups both of her hot cheeks in his nippy palms when she hiccups sadly, a sob threatening to slip out, “Yes you did! You meant it. Said you spoiled me, I don’t want your money, promise! I just want you and y'shooed me away saying Y/N’s too needy . . .” Harry flinches at her words. He never even spared a thought to this negativity that she chooses to be with him for his money because he knows out of all the people she’s the only one who loves him out of the boundaries of status and money.

He realises how stabbing they'd have been to her when she was so sensitive and floaty wanting nothing more, just him.

How deep she has gone if she’s taking her own name in third person.

“’M sorry baby. So sorry. Swear on myself, didn’t mean to hurt my baby, knows tha’ work shouldn’t be an excuse t’ make y'feel unloved—- but those bastards got a tick outta me.” He rambles on frantically. Afraid she’ll think he’s lying and would finally make up her mind to leave him.

“You didn’t?” She asks with so much innocence Harry nearly cries out, “’Course I didn’t! How could I? You could never be needy, Bab. I love you so much and you’re my whole word, forgive me please?”

“You’re forgiven,” She let a small smile flutter up her features, a tinge of gleam in her previous dull eyes brightening the whole room and Harry immediately bunches her up in his lap.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks her, not sure if she still needs space from him and would rather be better without him but she bobs her head shyly and he chuckles softly before touching their lips together into a tender loving kiss and brushes their noses up and down murmuring sweetly coy to her.

“Now, could y'tell daddy how y'got this bruise baby? How did ya get hurt?” He coos, brushing her sweaty hair back and rubs her sweet gland behind her ear delicately, “Oh yeah . . . this, was raining and slipped.” She murmurs, hissing a gasp jolting away when Harry glides his fingers gently down her hip bone and fresh tears springs in her eyes as she buries herself in his chest, “Daddy hurts. . .” . “Oh babypie. Daddy’s g'na take care of his love.” He lays her down gently kissing her forehead when she whines for him to keep on holding her, “’M right here darling. G'na prep us a bath, make my baby alright.” Saying this he quickly disappears inside the washroom and next their room’s sursuring with marble tub filling with warm water, Harry throws in her favourite pink coloured bath bombs and rose essences and throws their towels in the warmer coming back with her as he left her to be, he has decided he’s gonna love on her whole night, “My baby’s the best, ain’t she? She’s my bestest girl.” He coos down at her sweetly and slides his forearms under her knees and back picking her up carefully and brings her to his chest securely.

She closes her eyes, biting down a whimper when Harry dips them in the water some it sloshing down the edges of bathtub and it envelopes them and gives a stingy feeling to her bruise before soothing it down.

He rubs her arms, and circles smoothing patterns on her tummy and kisses her a gallons as she melts in his embrace and he let’s her sink into him more, nibbling and sponging wet ticklish kisses on her neck making her purr and become a puddle of softness in his hold while she takes her time to mumble all the bad events that happened to her and he felt so guilty of not asking her how she’s and how her day went when she came to him, in need of some of his lovin.

“I love you so much, bab.” He suckles her earlobe, toying and plucking her bottom plush lip, “Was prick to me love —.. you deserve all my lovin,” He noses at her jaw, not forgetting it to mark it with his pecks and sloppy bites.

“’S okay daddy, y'had a bad day too.” He’s grateful to have her in his life. She cares about him, maybe more than he does for her and he feels himself lucky for it.

“You want me to help you relax?”

“Can I have you?” Her tone bashfully desperate and coy, Harry meanders their fingers together and kisses her knuckles softly.

Considering her wound still being sore and pulp, having sex would be painful for her and she might not grasp it in her hazy mind but Harry doesn’t want to hurt at all.

He plants a little noisy smooch to her shoulder when she nods, she mews and purrs when Harry glides his palm all the way down her body and cups her pussy digging his palm into her mound and coats his digits with her arousal dipping the pads of his fingers into her entrance, “All this wet f'me?” Palming her tits while whispering sweet nothings into her ear when she gasps and closes up on Harry scratching nails into his bended knees.

“Shh, shh puppy, jus' relax hmm? Feel yourself.” With sputtery inhales she does as he says, soon two of his fingers slips inside her and he strokes her pussy and pulls them out making her all whiny and pushes them back with a squelching noise, fucking her with it smiling and stopping when her thighs parts falls again his’s completely.

“Daddy!” She writhes and whines, trembly hands trying to bring Harry fingers back to her pulsating wetness, “You’re the cutest.” He smiles against her lips giving her cheeks several squishes and pats her head loving to see his adorable princess all flustery for him.

On her demands. He slicks his fingers back inside her and caresses the insides of her thighs while she pants and sinks onto his knuckles blabbering out daddydaddydaddy weepily.

“Cum fo’ me, puppy. Feels good? Yeah? My baby feels nice?” He rasps in her mouth, curving and petting the soft spot inside her pussy and sucks onto her upper lip when she moans and mewls loudly gushing all over his finger and he keeps on fucking her till she’s all sleepy and balmy against his chest.

Harry coaxes her tenderly, smoothing his hands all over her twitchy spots and patches sloppy kisses all over her face that makes her all giggly and shy—- the amount of endorphins spiking high in her system.

“Love you so much, daddy.” She mushes puckering her lips into his throat.

“Love you too, pup.”

#dom harry x subby y/n #dom harry x sub reader #dom!h x sub!reader #dom!h x sub!y/n #dom harry #harry styles fanfic #harry styles story #harry styles one shot #harry styles blurb #harry styles smut #cute harry #harry styles #harry smut #harry styles fanfiction #fluff #harry angst #hsh

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imaginativeamateur · 3 years

Note

can you do 30 with kakashi and a fem reader pls 🥺🤲 I love your work and am so happy for you regarding your follower milestone, congrats !!

[Kakashi Hatake X Reader] The Power of Love

|200 Followers Event|

Prompt: 30 — "I mean it."

Pairing: Kakashi Hatake x fem!Reader

Note: Aloha, I'm back!!! Thanks for the request and the cheers😝 Okay, this one is AHHH, the title :DD This one is very sentimental but playful at the same time. There's like some serious talk but also entertaining moments, too. Without further ado, please enjoy!

Constant requests that you get married were sent in your way for the past several months. Your parents were tired of having to wait to see you bring a man home, but you had no intention to comply. The topic would come up to the table during dinner every now and then, with your mother furrowing in her brows and your father sighing in distress. On your part, you played cool, soothing them that you just found a guy and dismissing the matter with a feigned grin.

Everything would be ordinary, much to your own liking until your parents secretly signed you up for a match-matching service. You had a big argument that night but they smugly smiled and ensured that you would fall in love with him immediately. It was ridiculous.

“You’d be head over heels in no time, Y/N,” your mother said.

“Like she knows who he is,” you mumbled, scoffing on your way back to your apartment.

Though you completely shut the door to the new romance—the guy that you presumably knew nothing about—you woke up earlier than usual, earlier than you should. You blamed it on your neighbor’s child crying but you discerned that you were being irrational. The whole situation was aberrant. You purposefully threw on a pair of jeans and a shirt that was too worn out for a first date. Still, you could not be any more careless, the last thing you wanted was to get the man to generate some form of adoration for you. You checked yourself in the mirror and made sure that you looked representable nonetheless.

The sun was already high up in the sky when you locked your door and tiredly dropped the keys into your handbag, storming to the destination with angry steps. It was your day off and you could have spent your time on something much more meaningful, training, for example. Kakashi-senpai said you still needed to hone your close combat skills. You pursed your lips at the thought of the Hatake, feeling even more enraged and annoyed. The said Shinobi was a nice guy, he was gentle and mannered with everyone but you. He treated you like his kid, bossing you around, requesting you to dig through the shelves of bookstores to find the limited edition of Icha Icha that was recently published. But you did not quit being his subordinate. Kakashi had everything that you needed to harness, from his skills to knowledge, and you would never let such a golden opportunity go wasted.

Being with him for two long years brought you many benefits and visible improvements, one of them being your patience. You were short-tempered and Kakashi was just the perfect tame to your boiling climate. The silver-haired veteran knew you were cantankerous on some days, like today, when you were having an involuntary sunbathing session, and would always be later than he usually would. Over the drenching months, you grew indifferent to his tardiness, adapted to his peculiar conscience of time, and no longer rambled when he arrived. He would come up with the most bizarre excuses to get away with it, and at first, you were furious about it, but you found them somewhat adorable now.

You smiled, wondering why you were recalling your moments with Kakashi when you were waiting for your date to come. You bit the inner side of your cheek when you realized your patience was running thin—it reminded you of your silver-haired senpai. Releasing a shaky breath, you calmed yourself down, assuring that you would apologize to the man that it was merely a misunderstanding with your parents that they signed you up for today. You rubbed the surface of the table with your fingers and let your thoughts carried you away at the moment, unconsciously drumming the rhythm of your favorite song—his favorite song that you grew accustomed to after years of the very special silver-haired occupying your day.

“You seem nervous.”

Your head perked at the unexpectedly familiar voice, “Kakashi-senpai?”

The silver-haired settled himself in the opposite seat with ease, “Good morning, Y/N.”

“What are you doing here?” You did not bother to greet him back properly due to the tremendous shock being registered into your system.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to… to,” you came to a halt, fumbling with the hem of your shirt when you found it impossible to continue. It was embarrassing.

“Blind date?” He questioned, quirking a brow.

Your cheeks heated up in modesty, unable to answer his beseech.

“That seems like a yes,” Kakashi leaned back, enjoying your flustered state, “I’m here for a blind date, too.”

“A what?”

“A blind date,” he repeated without failing to lose his composure.

It took you several seconds to comprehend the whole situation, then you shifted in your chair, propping your elbows onto the table to hide your blush, “This is such an… interesting encounter. But I won’t change my mind.”

You were fairly absolute with the plan to turn the whole thing down, despite whoever was your date, despite it being Kakashi Hatake. You did not want to risk the bond that took you so long to form with him and the trust that he enlisted you upon. You could not.

“I also came resolute,” he made a simple, yet down-to-earth statement. Kakashi caught your eyes and challenged, “What do you want to do after a coffee date?”

“No,” you jerked away, “what are you saying? Are you okay, senpai?”

“We’re on a date and you still call me senpai?”

“Look, we’re not going to do this, we can’t, Kakashi,” you tried to explain but to no avail.

The silver-haired smugly smiled, “Good, Kakashi sounds much nicer.”

“I’m not joking,” you cleared your throat and glared at him.

“Neither am I, Y/N. I mean it.”

Your lips fell apart as the coherence in your mind shattered into bits and pieces. Kakashi silently observed the fleeting expressions that you made, waiting for your response.

“I don’t know,” you stuttered. You knew who Kakashi was and the tragedy of your occupation. The two of you did not deserve anyone’s love, for once that you held the chance of breaking their heart. You looked away from his eyes to conceal the wavering of your emotions, “I never thought about life in that way. I don’t need a man in my life, that’s what I’d like to believe. I don’t want anyone to feel battered when I’m gone.”

“I hate it to see those I love cry and mourn, too,” he mumbled. You listened attentively as though it was yourself confessing to the dark. Kakashi continued, “I only live for a certain amount of time but I have been constantly filling it with despair and loneliness. There were things that I want to do and people that I want to love, but because of my fear of hurting them, I didn’t. But after the massive loss that I’ve experienced, everything was different, I understood how painful regret actually is.”

Tears began to well in your eyes the more his words dropped. You balled your fists, blinking profusely to prevent the warm droplets from escaping. Kakashi noticed your quiet sobs, running his fingers over your trembling hands, loosening your grip, and interlacing your fingers with his. You released a heavy sigh and pulled both your hands back, wiping away your tears as quickly as when they fell and dampened the fabric of your jeans.

“You’re not at the bottom of agony when you lose someone important,” Kakashi breathed, “it’s when you feel empty after they’ve left and mourning on what you could’ve done when they were still with you.”

Your sobs eventually assuaged as you chewed on his words. The silver-haired distracted himself by stirring the liquid of his drink, but he was in no state to enjoy its taste. He already said everything he wanted to say, and the decision was now fully on your shoulders. But by your lack of response, he was sure that you did not see your relationship taking another form—the way that he wished. He abruptly stood up from his seat, fleeting on his feet, “Let’s forget about what’s happened. I mean I still respect you as my teammate, Y/N. Don’t forget our meeting tomorrow.”

“No-no, Kakashi-senpai, wait,” you moved, hastily shoving your hands in his direction, gripping his wrist like a vice. You hung your head low to avoid his investigating gaze as you spoke, “I do.”

His gears in his head turned, and Kakashi smiled with satisfaction, “You do what?”

Your heart was beating frantically in your chest, so fast that you felt its rapid pumps in your throat. You stuttered out, voice growing quieter the more you expressed, “I-I want to go out with you, senpai—”

“Drop the ‘senpai’ already,” he playfully hissed and you grinned, certain that you just made the best choice of your life. Kakashi leaned down and rested his chin on your shoulder blade, snuggling his face into your neck, “Thank you, Y/N. Thank you for letting me love you.”

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Taglist: @dai-tsukki-desu @thenightfallingstar @iam-gaaras-loveintrest @animepickle7 @tirzamisu @rinnegankakashi

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jenanigans1207 · 3 years

Text

Lonely with Me |Renga|

Okay so I binged all 8 eps of Sk8 today. And like, I know ep 8 is already out but if I had started watching last week, this is the fic I would have written to help myself cope with the tragedy that was ep 7. And I decided that I want to write it anyways because I still have a lot of feelings about it. So, I hope you enjoy!

-- x

It wasn’t supposed to rain today, but Reki doesn’t care.

The rain patters to the ground around him, drowning out the sound of his ragged breathing, his broken heartbeats. It trickles down his back, across his face, it feels like tears. It wasn’t supposed to rain, but Reki thinks there’s some sort of ironic humor in the universe, some sort of sick joke that he has to endure as he walks away from his best friend, head bowed as his shattered heart somehow finds a way to break a little more with every step.

At this point, he’s already drenched to the bone anyways, the water sloshing in his shoes with each slowing step. His house is still a few streets away and the lamps are the only light he has to guide him there. And he should be going home, he has every reason to go home, but he finds that his feet stop moving of their own accord. He tries to breathe in the cool air of the rain, tries to feel the dampness against his cheek and think of it as refreshing. It doesn’t work.

Because the only thing he’s actually thinking about is Langa and the way he didn’t follow.

Reki walked away and Langa— Langa just let him go.

Langa, who stopped him from doing reckless things. Langa who tried to nurse him back to health when he was broken. Langa who had never let Reki get too far away, who had always reached out for him, circled back for him, sought him out in a crowd. Langa, who seemed to always hear Reki, even when he wasn’t speaking, who seemed to understand the language of Reki’s soul and managed to read between the lines. Langa, who Reki trusted more than anyone else, who Reki needed in his life, wanted in his life. Langa just let him walk away like he wasn’t just one gentle breeze away from falling apart completely.

Did Langa not see the way he was hurting, not hear the barbs laced into all of his words? For all that Langa had always been good at understanding what Reki really meant, he didn’t seem able to figure it out tonight. He’d just stared wide-eyed at Reki’s back as he’d stomped away through the puddles, his feelings washing away from the space between the two of them, drowned out a little more with every raindrop that seems to punctuate their growing distance.

He tries not to think about it, but his head is an echo chamber, replaying his words over and over again. Replaying Langa’s silence on loop until it drives him absolutely insane. What he needs is to get away from it all, to get home, to lock himself in his room. Reki needs to bury his face in a pillow and block out the rest of the world, not sit outside in the rain and catch his death.

Reki slumps to the ground anyways, pressing his back against the stone wall and dropping his forehead against his knees. He’d been fighting the weight of this for days, watching as Langa got further and further ahead of him. It had been a hard battle but at least then he’d been treading water, managing to somehow stay afloat despite it all. He had been able to put his fear of being left behind away and had been excited for his friend. But now— now he was drowning from it, the weight pulling him straight to the depths of the ocean with no hope of escaping. Reki may be good at skateboarding but it turns out he’s terrible at swimming and even worse at dealing with these feelings. The light of the surface is so far away now, he can’t even see it.

Logic told him that he should be happy for his friend. And he was, of course he was. Langa was brilliant and watching him skate was magical. It had been since the very first time Reki had seen him take on the S. Hell, it had been magical before that. From the first moment Langa stepped foot on Reki’s skateboard, only to fall flat on his back less than a second later, Reki had been enthralled. There was something about the way Langa moved on a skateboard, something about the way he made the sport his own— it was captivating, breathtaking, impossible to look away from. Everyone saw it— Snow had risen to the tip of everyone’s tongue lately, a name thrown around casually as if people knew him.

But they didn’t know him, not the way Reki did. They weren’t used to watching him practice skating, they hadn’t seen him start at the bottom. They had never seen his face as he’d hit the ground after his hundredth failed attempt at a trick, only to watch it harden back into determination as he got up to try it again. They didn’t know what his laugh sounded like, or the way he brushed his hair out of his face, they didn’t know what he looked like at the end of a long night, blinking the sleep away. They knew Snow, but Reki knew Langa. He knew the touch of Langa’s hand around his wrist as he shook his head with finality, cutting off some silly idea before Reki could even finish forming it. He knew the smile that Langa reserved only for when he nailed a new skill he’d been practicing.

He knew what it was like to have Langa nestled inside of his chest, right up against his heart. He was the only person Langa read like an open book, the only one Langa protected. Reki still remembered the look on Langa’s face after his beef with Adam, the way Langa’s expression had switched from worry to fury in such a quick second that Reki would’ve missed it if he’d blinked. He knew Langa as well as he knew himself because Langa was his best friend, his most important person. Langa was the person he shared his passion with, the one who listened to him as he rattled on and on about everything skating related.

Langa was the one he had left behind in the rain. The one who’d done nothing but watch him go.

God. This wasn’t supposed to hurt so bad.

The worst part was that there was nobody to blame. He couldn’t possibly be mad at Langa for being a genius— it wasn’t like Langa had chosen that. It wasn’t even like Langa had purposely wielded it against him. All Langa had been doing this time was having fun, that was clear in the look in his eyes every time he stepped onto his board. He’d been finding his place in this new world that he was suddenly thrust into, finding a way to express himself through all the things he’d been through. He was finding something to be passionate about again, something to give him back a piece of himself that he’d felt like he’d lost. He loved skating as much as he had loved snowboarding and Reki would never take that away from him. It came to Langa as natural as breathing by now and that was something Reki could be jealous of, but he couldn’t blame Langa for it.

He couldn’t blame himself either, though, not really. Because that would make it better. If the fact of the matter was just that he hadn’t tried hard enough, hadn’t put in the hours practicing— if the truth was that he was a coward, that he scared easily and didn’t have the guts for this, well that was something he could face. More than that, it was something he could fix. He could put it more time practicing, he could study the other skaters with more dedication, he could work on facing his fears. If it was his fault, he could do something about it, could manage to close the gap between him and Langa, even if just marginally. But that wasn’t the truth. Reki loved skating, too. Reki had been skating for nearly as long as Langa had been snowboarding, He had put in years, numerous broken bones and a lot of sleepless nights. He had watched video after video online, studied all the top skaters at the S, he’d put in the work and even when he didn’t see progress as fast as he would have liked to, he put in more work.

There wasn’t anything Reki could do that he hadn’t already been doing, There wasn’t anything that would allow him to catch back up to Langa.

And maybe that’s why it actually hurt so bad. Because the fact of the matter, the one Reki had been forced to face jump after jump after jump, that graffiti star an unattainable goal mocking him from just a few feet away, was that he and Langa weren’t the same. They weren’t in the same category, they weren’t the same skill level. And the gap between them was only going to grow wider. Because no matter how many times Reki made that same jump, no matter how many techniques he tried, he simply couldn’t reach any higher. And yet, it seemed like Langa got a little closer to the stars every time his feet touched his deck.

Pretty soon Langa would be so far away that he’d be nothing but a brilliant speck of light for Reki to admire from afar. He’d be nothing but fond memories of a time Reki had found his best friend, the person who fit the edges of his soul with perfect ease. He would watch Langa rise in the ranks and he would think of these months they spent together, learning to speak each other’s language, to meet each other in the middle. He would remember Langa’s laugh, the way he would duck his head as if it could somehow hide the melodic sound. And then he would think about how he’d lost all of that, how it had been just enough to whet his appetite before it had been ripped away from him, forever leaving a Langa-shaped hole in his heart.

And it was true that Langa hadn’t left Reki behind— yet. So far, Langa always came back for Reki, always glanced over his shoulder to make sure Reki was still there. Whenever he accomplished something new, Reki was the first person he showed, the approval he sought. But Reki had seen him skate against Adam, had seen the way he’d effortlessly flipped straight over Adam’s hug, like it was nothing. Like it was the only obvious thing he could have done. He saw the way Langa wanted more, craved for something further ahead of him. And if Reki was behind him already, there was no way he would ever be able to help Langa satisfy that craving.

It was really only a matter of time before Langa left Reki behind.

Or, it was a matter of time before Langa should leave Reki behind if he wanted to keep advancing and growing. Just as these feelings of bitterness had been weighing Reki down, he knew that he was starting to way Langa down. Langa could never get better if he kept skating with Reki, kept trying to match Reki’s pace instead of setting his own. He couldn’t develop his skill any further by Reki’s side and even though that cut, even though it hurt worse than every broken bone that Reki had ever had, stung worse than all of the road rash he’d acquired over the years, he didn’t want to be the reason Langa was stuck. Just like he didn’t want Langa to get hurt because of him, he didn’t want Langa to give up his potential, either. Langa was destined to shine and Reki was casting a shadow over his brilliant light.

So as much as it hurt, as terribly as it sucked— and it did, oh it did— Reki knew that he had to break free from Langa. He knew that he had to put the space between them, to sever the tie that Langa was using to drag him along. Because Langa was— well, he was Langa.

He was quiet, but genuinely interested in everything Reki had to say. He was soft spoken but the things he did say were brilliant. He added great insight. He was protective, fierce—

Reki pulled his knees closer to his chest.

He needed to stop thinking like this. He needed to haul himself off the ground and finish dragging his sorry ass home. He needed to collapse, maybe pretend to be sick tomorrow so he could lay in bed all day. He needed to do something because right now he was sitting in one spot, an easy target for all the emotions he had been trying so desperately to avoid. He didn’t think he could outrun them, not anymore, but he ought to at least try.

Somewhere in the distance, the sound of water starts to shift. It takes Reki a few seconds to realize that he’s hearing more than just raindrops now, he’s hearing a set of footsteps in the puddles. He considers for a moment trying to get up now, but whichever other poor soul is out in this rain has already seen him and really, he still doesn’t have the will to do anything but stay exactly where he is. If he’s lucky, the person will just pass him right on by, biting back whatever questions they have for a young boy sitting in the rain with his head bowed.

“Reki.” The sound of Langa’s voice is almost enough to make Reki jump right out of his skin. “You’re going to get sick if you keep sitting there.”

“So?” Reki manages to mumble, pressing his forehead firmer against his knees.

Langa sighs and Reki refuses to look up at him, refuses to see the way the lights are reflecting in his eyes, the way his longer hair curls gently at the back of his head. Reki refuses to look up and acknowledge that Langa had actually come after him in the end.

He refuses to look at Langa because if he does, he’ll say all the things he doesn’t want Langa to know.

He doesn’t look at Langa, because if he does, he’ll tell Langa that he doesn’t want him to go, that he wants to keep skating with him for as long as Langa will let him. He’ll tell Langa that he misses him, even if he’s only two feet away. He’ll tell Langa all these things that will become a burden on Langa because he’s too gentle to leave Reki behind, even if he needs to. So it’s up to Reki to cut the ties for his sake and he can’t do that if he sees Langa standing over him in the rain.

“Reki.” Langa repeats, but this time it’s so quiet, it’s almost drowned out by the rain entirely. When Reki doesn’t respond, doesn’t shift even a little bit, Langa steps closer, closer, closer and then he’s sitting down next to Reki, pressing his own back against the stone wall, his shoulder brushing Reki’s in the process.

For a moment, they just sit side by side like this, close enough that Reki can just feel the warmth of Langa’s skin despite the rain that still cascades down on them. They sit in the silence of the late night, no other people daring to be out in weather such as this. It’s almost peaceful, honestly, As peaceful as something can be when Reki is trying to nurse the jagged edges of a broken heart so they don’t get the chance to cut him any deeper.

Reki thinks that Langa is leaving it up to him to talk, to start whatever conversation they’re supposed to be having, It’s a fair thing for Langa to do, considering that Reki is the one who walked away, the one who is clearly carrying some burden— a burden that he only allowed Langa to see a glimpse of. It’s only reasonable to assume that Reki would have more to say after that, but he really doesn’t.

And then Langa shifts next to him, turning so that he’s facing Reki. Reki still isn’t looking at him, but he can see Langa’s legs and feet as he moves and then suddenly there’s a warm hand on his shoulder and it’s enough to jolt Reki into at least lifting his head.

He really shouldn’t have because Langa looks just as broken as Reki feels, his wet hair falling limp around his face, the longer edges of his hair kissing his shoulders along with the raindrops. He looks like he’s in pain and Reki’s immediate reaction is to want to fix it, even though he’s the cause of it.

This really became quite the mess.

“I want to skate with you.” Langa says after a moment, the words almost choked, as if he can barely get them out. “I want to beat Adam, but I want to skate with you.”

And there really is a difference there, Reki knows. He can feel it in the way Langa emphasizes the words. Beating Adam, that’s a one time thing. But skating together? That’s— that’s everything. That’s daily, nightly, forever. That’s the exact thing that Reki has unintentionally fallen in love with. Skating together is laughing together, it’s continuing to speak each other’s language. Skating together means more of Langa’s hands as he bandages up Reki’s newest injury, more chances to watch Langa’s eyes light up as he masters something new. Skating together is continuing to bare their souls to each other, meeting each other in the middle.

Langa doesn’t want to compete with Reki, that’s what he’s saying. He wants to share this with Reki, for it to be something they both hold dear. Langa wants to surpass Adam and leave him in the dust, but he wants to keep Reki at his side.

“You’re better than I am.” Reki responds feebly, glancing down to where Langa’s foot is almost touching his. “You should go on ahead.”

For a moment, Langa seems to chew on his response, thinking of how to properly say whatever words are all jumbled up in his mind. Reki has seen him do it before and, apparently, if Langa gets his way, he’ll see him do it again in the future.

“I don’t skate to be good.” Langa finally says. “I skate to have fun. And I have fun skating with you.”

“You have fun skating with Adam, too.” Reki replies. He doesn’t want to say these words, doesn’t want to keep digging the knife deeper into his own heart, but he tries to anyways. “You can keep having fun skating with Adam because he’ll keep challenging you.”

“No.”

It’s all Langa says before there’s a set of arms enveloping Reki, pulling him flush into Langa’s soaking wet body. Reki falls into him, his arms finally letting go of his legs as he allows himself a brief moment to just be held by Langa. And then, after a few seconds tick by, he wraps his own arms back around Langa, his hands fisting in the back of Langa’s shirt as he pulls him closer, pressing his face into Langa’s shoulder.

Langa’s hold is firm and unyielding as he buries his own face in the hair on top of Reki’s head. They don’t speak, not for a long time, but Langa’s always been good at hearing what’s inside Reki’s heart, even if Reki hasn’t tried putting it into words. And the longer he remains in Langa’s embrace, the more he realizes that he, too, can read into the depths of Langa’s heart. He can feel it in the way Langa smooths a hand down his back, the desperation for things to not end here. He can hear it in Langa’s rattling breaths, that he’s going to keep fighting for this, that he’s not going to just let Reki walk away again.

“I’m sorry—“ Reki starts to say, but his apology is cut short by Langa pulling away from him. Not far— not far at all, in fact. He’s so close, his blue eyes sparkling in a way that Reki has never seen before.

Their arms are still wrapped around each other as their gazes lock and there seems to be something filling the air besides the rain suddenly. Reki tries to swallow, to form the rest of his apology, to explain to Langa that he’s just afraid of losing the one thing that matters to him more than anything else. He wants to tell Langa that losing him will hurt worse than losing his friend in the past and that he’s handled it completely the wrong way but his intentions were good and he just wanted Langa to shine—

But before any of the words can find their way past the lump in his throat, Langa is leaning in and Reki can’t do anything but lean in, too, his eyes fluttering as the feeling between them grows to an almost unbearable level. They’re close, so close, painfully close—

The wall of water that drenches them is somehow cold, despite the fact that they were both already dripping wet. Reki makes some sort of startled noise and shoots backwards, trying to brush his hair out of his face. Langa is in the same spot, arms out to the side as he tries to shake some of the extra water off, but there’s a smile on his face. The driver of the car that had drenched them yells some sort of apology out of their window before continuing onwards. Reki, too stunned to have any idea what to do, turns to Langa only to see his shoulders shaking with laughter.

And then suddenly he’s laughing out loud, throwing his head back as he tucks his wet hair behind his ears and Reki finds that he’s laughing too. He’s laughing and his ribs and lungs are burning and it feels good and warm against the cold of the evening, it’s a balm against the storm of emotions that has only just started to be quelled inside of him.

“I’m sorry,” He says to Langa again, after they’ve finally gotten their laughter back under control. He knows Langa doesn’t need an apology, but he deserves one. “I was just— feeling left behind and lonely.”

“Reki, I’ll never leave you behind.” Langa says with the same conviction that he had promised Reki that he wouldn’t give up skateboarding, even if he got seriously injured. He says it with so much feeling that Reki knows it’s more than a promise, it's a guarantee.

Even though he still doesn’t like Langa going up against Adam again, even though he worries for Langa’s safety and still knows that he’s going to have bouts of loneliness as he tries desperately to close this gap between them, as he chases in Langa’s shadow, he knows that he’s going to have Langa by his side through it all. And maybe being lonely isn't terrible if he has someone to be lonely with.

Reki stands up finally, tucking his skateboard under one arm and extending his other hand to Langa. “Whatever you say mister hot shot, Snow.”

Langa takes his hand with a dramatic roll of his eyes and allows Reki to haul him to his feet. “If you act like that, maybe I will leave you behind.”

Or maybe, Reki thinks as Langa falls in step next to him as they head towards his house together, an unspoken agreement to dry off passing between them, he won’t be lonely at all.

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sadsapphicslut · 3 years

Text

chapter one - original story (i havent come up with a title yet lol)

okay so here it is!! if anyone actually reads this i love u :) please leave feedback if u have any!!

TWs:

death, drugs, medication, mental illness, references to sex, swearing, alcohol

wordcount: 8.2k

(also i dont think anyone will but im paranoid of people stealing my writing so obligatory dont copy/post to another site or steal my work in any other ways etc)

There were five of us; 4 boys and me. In hindsight I realize from the outside our group probably seemed a little predatory, but it was never really like that. For the most part they were like brothers to me. Of course, being the only girl in a small and isolated club of mainly older boys, things were bound to happen. We were in high school and it was summer, can you blame me? Regardless, however much I loved them, it was not quite in the way my father always assumed or my mother always warned (during our uncomfortable monthly visitations before I managed to get rid of her for good).

The months everything went down, which I often referred to only as ‘The Worst Summer of My Life’, (quite melodramatically but not without reason) were somehow still full of the best moments of my life. Moments I often find myself wishing I could repeat, as nothing has or will ever come close to the way I felt, sitting amongst my boys day after day, somehow light as the warm July breeze that blew past us. My entire body weightless, as non-existent as the time that passed us by. Despite the depression I’d found myself plunged into during the days after my only brother’s death, I truly believe I will never again be as happy as I was then. Laughter seemed to flow freely from our mouths, smiles plastered onto our faces no matter the circumstances, content to just exist. I don’t think I can ever forget the day it was raining so hard the entire city was flooded, but we walked around uptown well past the point of being absolutely drenched, our clothes dripping so heavily the security guard denied us entry into the public library. Something about that day made me feel so free, like we were invisible. Completely apathetic to the whims of the real world, somehow existing only in our twisted minds and intertwined fantasies.

Maybe if I’d had my head screwed on a little tighter, or if we’d met under different circumstances, it wouldn’t have ended the way it did. I used to go down that line of thought every night before succumbing to a fitful but heavy sleep (under the direct affect of 25mg of Quetiapine, working to counteract my Concerta and Lexapro). Those types of irrational thoughts were ones my therapist deemed as my habit for rumination. In regard to the death of my brother she called it ‘bargaining’, one of the stages of grief. I never liked it when she spoke about those stages as I’ve always felt them to be wrong. Maybe because I never quite moved on to the final one, no matter how many years pass. ‘Acceptance’, coined as the “Re-entrance to reality”. Maybe it’s different since I was never really grounded to reality in the first place. I still wake up some mornings, thinking I’ve heard his voice in the other room, ready to beguile me with tales from his day of retail work. Other times I swear I’ve walked past him on the street. Some people may relate to my experiences, with reasonings of ghosts, angels, apparitions, or insanity, among many other causes for the apparent viewing of a loved one long gone to the other side. I never shared these beliefs, but I am not one to deny. Rather, I always take these instances as an omen. A warning. I have come to this conclusion not without evidence, at least circumstantial, given the many occasions over the years – and especially that summer – where I found my hypothesis to be true. All I can say is that I am glad I’ve never been met with the same chimerical visions of my mother; one can only hope that is because she ended up where she belonged. Maybe I’ll see her there, though I hope at the very least they could keep us in separate rooms of Hell if the situation does arise.

From what I know of the others now, which is admittedly not much – majorly due to my own neglect, as opposed to theirs – they share the same prescription for rose-coloured glasses as I. We always were too engrossed with our own romanticization of nostalgia and sentiment that it clouded our view. I often think this was one of the reasons we seemed to fit so well together. Not quite like puzzle pieces, too self-absorbed to hold a candle to that analogy, more like complimentary colours. I wish it could’ve stayed the way it was. We did try, and I never found myself able to fully disentangle myself from James, nor he could to I, but for most of us we could recognize an ending when one arises. I used to find myself using the word tragedy a lot while reminiscing, but I no longer think that word is appropriate. Fate is a more fitting term in my opinion, regardless of if one believes in it or not. “(A)n inevitable and often adverse outcome, condition, or end,” as reported by Merriam Webster. I don’t think there’s a word in the entire English language more accurate in describing how everything ended up; and if there is, I am yet to find it.

Chapter One

A Dead Brother

I have tried to erase the day my brother died from my memory so many times I lost count decades ago. I still find the image seeping into my unconsciousness quite dreadfully on the nights I neglect to take my pills and catch myself waking up with a steady flow of tears that dampen my pillow along with the drool that always seems to pour from my sleeping mouth. The dread that pools in my stomach sometimes being heavy enough for me to lose my lunch. I frequently wonder how people managed to reassure me that it wasn’t my fault; the most painful lie I’ve ever been told and one that seemed to stream from people’s mouths as easily as the mini sandwiches laid in the living room of my brother’s wake were stuffed in. The worst part about being told it wasn’t my fault was how obviously one could tell they didn’t believe what they were saying either. His death was my fault; a fact so uncontestable I wanted to kill myself every time I was reminded of it.

My therapist often tried to remind me that even if his death was “partially” (she always used the word partially, refusing to acknowledge the truth that his death was entirely my fault) my fault, there was nothing I could’ve done to prevent it. This was another lie I despised being told. There were a million ways I could have prevented his death or saved his life and yet, here we are, with him dead and me wishing everyday that I won’t wake up tomorrow. “Begonia,” she’d tell me – she was the only person who called me by my full name, I usually went by Nia, but a nickname felt too personal and I didn’t like her very much – “You mustn’t keep torturing yourself with these scenarios. He’s dead, and there is nothing you can do to change that. I am starting to wonder if you are going to let yourself move on. This isn’t healthy.” That was a line she liked to use a lot, “this isn’t healthy”. As if anything I do is.

Barb, my therapist that is, liked to go over the details of my brother’s death a lot. She often called it a ‘trigger’, which is why she always seemed to want me to talk about it. “Trauma is a horrible thing, Begonia, and you must learn to move past it, process it. I can see you still haven’t managed to do that on your own, and that’s what I’m here for, to help you move on.” Barb was big on the idea of “moving past trauma” and “learning to cope”, she often sounded like a broken record of a motivational speech. I found myself comparing her to school guidance councillors without realizing it, they were about equally as helpful (read: not helpful) in my opinion.

Sometimes I blame my inability to forget and “move past” my brother’s death on the way Barb constantly brought it up and made me go through it. I never quite understood how that part of my therapy was supposed to help me. I asked her once, what good was it doing rehashing the worst day of my life?

“Well, Begonia,” I hated the way she said my name, always so condescending and sour, like even the idea of me questioning her in any way was as impolite as shitting on her desk.

“You have to understand that I only want to help you. You seem to be unable to process your traumas on your own, which is why we need to go through these things. As you are aware, this PTSD,” she always left strange pauses after each letter, her slow tone grinding on my ears, “you have acquired has left you unable to function normally in daily life. I want you to get to a place where you can have a normal life (Ha!) and cope without these meetings. It’s what your brother would’ve wanted.” Barb liked to tell me what my brother would have wanted at least once every session. Putting aside the fact she knew next to nothing about him aside from the intimate details on how he died, I always thought it was an inappropriate thing to say as a psychologist specializing in grief counselling. It never particularly bothered me, I was reasonable enough to realize she was just trying to comfort me, but I never liked the phrase. “What your brother would’ve wanted.” What he would’ve wanted was to not die but we’re past that, aren’t we Barb, as you so often enjoyed telling me.

I have always been quite averse to my diagnoses, ADHD at 14, Persistent Depressive Disorder at 15, PTSD at 16, issues with alcohol and drugs that landed me in rehab more than once. I’ve been on a concoction of different medications since I was 13, even before I was diagnosed with anything officially. Sertraline, Lexapro, Prozac, Ritalin, Concerta, Adderall, Quetiapine, Ambien, Zopiclone, a healthy mix of off brand and branded medications. Sleeping pills, antidepressants, stimulants. I can’t remember a time before monthly trips to the drug store and side effect surveys that I’m not sure if I ever told the truth on. It’s a wonder that people didn’t see a slew of addiction issues coming from a mile away.

I think I’ve always had the most contention with my PTSD diagnosis though, I hate it because I know it’s undeniably true. I wish it wasn’t because maybe that’d mean my brother was still alive, but he isn’t. And I’m left traumatized and bereaved. Sometimes it feels like it hurt me more than it ever did my mother or father. Maybe it did. I should feel selfish for saying that, but I can’t, because they didn’t have to look at him while the life left his body, praying to God for the ability to turn back time. See the moment his eyes glazed over, knowing I’d never get to hear his obnoxious laugh, or make fun of his dumb face ever again.

❈

“Ray, hey listen I need you to come pick me up.”

It was a cool evening in May, the end of spring brought with it the promise of summer and the air had the familiar aroma of daffodils and petrichor. I had decided to go to a party with my friend Faun, my dad having been out at his girlfriend’s place for the weekend and me having nothing better to do. I wasn’t one for partying, but I did like to get high, so I usually just hung around with the rest of the potheads and pill junkies until someone dragged me home or I fell asleep. That night Don, a friend of a friend of a friend, had brought coke and E and we were all determined to get as fucked up as possible. Faun only ended up doing one line before running into a bedroom with some guy whose name started with an M – was it Martin or Marvin? Maybe it was Mickey – and left me sitting on the couch beside a girl who was about 1 more shot of vodka away from passing out.

I had fully intended on doing some coke, but the E seemed to be hitting harder than I was used to. I was sure my Ritalin had worn off by then but maybe I was wrong. As I stood up to get a glass of water I nearly fell over and decided to sit back down. Turning to face Don, I tapped him on the shoulder trying to get his attention.

“What was in that molly?” I was vaguely aware of the way my words were slurring, but I felt weirdly energized. I was aware my heart was beating a little too fast, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I knew what ecstasy felt like, this was not nearly my first time doing it, but I felt really wrong.

“Don!” He turned to look at me and I felt uneasy. His eyes looked a little crazed – not that out of the ordinary but given the circumstances I was worried – “What the fuck did you give me?” It felt like I’d done 5 lines of coke in the last 2 minutes and I knew that E had been spiked.

Don’s face had an unmistakable expression of guilt written on it as he leaned down and whispered in my ear, his voice shaking, “I think it was cut with meth.” Fuck. My stomach dropped. I have to get out of here. I quickly shot up from the musty couch I was sat on, carefully holding onto Don’s shoulder so I didn’t fall, my legs still feeling unsteady. I opened my phone; the screen was too bright, and I had a hard time maneuvering it as I attempted to exit the house. Clicking the green Messages icon, I sent a text to Faun – e ws cut w meth im lesving – with shaky hands and burst out the door into the fresh air. I clicked my brother’s contact and pressed call.

It rang four times before he picked up.

“Nia? Why are you calling me it’s like 1am?” I could tell from the smooth tone of his voice he’d been drinking. He didn’t very often but he had an appreciation for cocktails and enjoyed getting buzzed now and then. He still was a year from being legal to drink but his friends we’re all 19 and 20 and bought alcohol for him. I found him fun when he got drunk, becoming talkative and giggly, but right now I wished so badly for him to be sober.

“Ray, hey listen I need you to come pick me up.” I was slurring, my voice a bit too pitchy to pass as anything but high. I knew he didn’t like it when I did this, but he never ratted me out. Sometimes I wish he did, maybe I never would’ve been able to go to that party in the first place.

I could hear a door shutting on his end, I assumed he was going into a different room. “What’s wrong?” My skin was bubbling with anxiety at the prospect of having to tell him what I did.

“Fuck, uh… I did something stupid. I’m at Emily Goguen’s, y’know up in Champlain Heights. Please pick me up.” I rarely used the word please.

“Nia, what the fuck did you do?” I almost started crying but I found my eyes to be bone dry.

“Please don’t yell.”

“Okay, really, tell me what is going on or I won’t come get you.”

“I accidentally took meth.”

“You what? What the fuck, Nia! Fuck this I’m on my way and I’m fucking telling Dad.” I cringed but I knew he was going to before I even called. The pit in my stomach grew deeper as the buzzing of my skin grew stronger. I could feel myself getting higher, everything was so clear and standing around was making me grow restless. Ray huffed on the phone and I heard him entering his car.

His tone was softer the next time he spoke. “I’ll be there in 5, just stay put, please. Do you want me to stay on the call or can I hang up?”

I felt like a child, which I was really, only 16 at the time, a whole life ahead of me. Still, I was grateful for the way he spoke to me, reminiscent of being 6 and getting a scrapped knee after falling off my pink Razor scooter. The high made me edgy, and my voice was sharp to my ears, “No, you can hang up.” I heard the click to indicate he’d done just that, and started pushing my cuticles as I waited, the task somehow greatly interesting me, and I did not realize until later I had managed to pick off all of the skin around my pointer and middle fingernails during the five-minute wait.

Ray pulled up exactly five minutes later in his ugly, blue 2011 Ford Fiesta he’d gotten the year prior after passing his driving test. What I wouldn’t do now to smell the inside of that car once again, a distinct attar of pineapple car freshener and Old Spice deodorant mixed with stale black tea, faintly present due to his ever-growing collection of empty paper cups from various different fast foods and coffee shops.

I stumbled into the car, feeling the strong impulse to clean the space, but attempting to push it down. From the passenger side overhead mirror I could see my blown pupils and sweaty forehead, pieces of my copper red hair sticking to my face. My freckles were showing through my concealer that had mostly worn off and I wanted to cover them back up. My skin was pale from winter (and probably the drugs in my system) but my cheeks were flushed like I was drunk. My high cheekbones made my face look gaunt in the lighting, but my face was wide which balanced it out, so I didn’t look completely skeletal. Ray was looking at me, the worry apparent in his eyes, but his face was flushed as well, and I could tell he’d been drinking a bit too much to drive. I had my license as well, but it was clear I was in no condition to take over on that front, so I didn’t bother saying anything. I wish I had. There’s a lot of things I wish. I wish I hadn’t gone to that party; I wish I hadn’t taken that E; I wish I called someone else; I wish I waited it out at Emily’s; I wish I walked home; I wish I took a cab; I wish I waited for Faun; I wish I wish I wish I wish I wish.

“Are you okay?” He didn’t take his eyes off me as I shut the mirror in front of me.

“Yeah, yeah I’ll be fine. Please just take me home.”

“Is Dad there?”

“No.”

“Maybe I should take you to Mom’s.”

“No!” I’d moved out of my mom’s completely just over 6 months ago, barely seeing her once a month. It was one of the best decisions I’d ever made. She never liked me much anyways, the feeling was entirely mutual. Ray seemed to have a close bond with her for some reason despite how she treated him like shit. I never called him out though, he no longer lived with her, so I didn’t really care what their relationship was as long as she wasn’t hurting him. She did treat him significantly better than me, however, so I figured maybe he managed to forgive her the way I never could.

“Okay, but I’m staying with you until Dad gets home. I’m not gonna lie to him about this shit. Fucking meth, Nia? Seriously?”

“It was in the molly.” He sighed and started driving.

My brain felt like it was filled with butterflies, or ants, some kind of movement that was itching at my skull. The paper cups scattered around were making me anxious and I needed to clean his car. I began picking at my nails again, but I needed to pick up those cups, you see. I turned around and started gathering the ones Ray had discarded in the back, filling up an empty plastic bag from Best Buy. I was fully switched around in my seat, nearly crawling into the backseat to reach the trash my brother had left. I felt him tap my side, I looked over at him and he started to scold me.

“Nia, stop that will you, you’re distracting me.” But I needed to finish gathering the cups. The car was dirty, and my skin was itching, the traffic lights burning my skin. I was elated and I didn’t want to listen to him, he was just trying to get in my way. I continued to lean over, not registering the swerve of the car as he looked over at me.

“Nia – ”

He turned over to push me back into my seat, his eyes leaving the road for no more than a few seconds. This time I felt the swerve as we broke into the next lane.

This is where I have a hard time piecing together what happened. From what I was told, we ended up running directly into a 2015 Dodge Ram 2500. In case you understandably have a lack of knowledge when it comes to cars, that is a very large, sturdy, and expensive pickup truck which I would probably consider the last vehicle you’d want to charge headfirst into while going 70km per hour. I don’t recall the actual incident of hitting the truck, whether that be from the drugs, the position I was in, or hitting my head on the roof of the car, I don’t know. What I do know is that when I woke up, we were in a ditch on the side of the road, with the car flipped upside down, and my entire body was screaming at me to Get Out!

I felt blood oozing sluggishly from my head and noted some indistinct pain in my right wrist where it had scraped something pretty badly and gotten twisted, but I otherwise felt alright. I couldn’t tell if the cloudiness in my head was from a concussion or the earlier events of the night, but I figured it was probably good I was awake, regardless of how dazed I seemed.

I turned my head to the left and was greeted by a view I will never be able to forget, it having been branded to the insides of my eyelids, scorched in my mind. Ray, with his left arm twisted in spectacular fashion, reminding me of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, after Lockhart spells away Harry’s bones. My brother had always been squeamish with broken bones and I hoped he wasn’t aware of how his limb looked at the moment. His head was bleeding quite profusely, and I was alarmed despite how many times I’d heard in movies that headwounds bleed a lot. His eyelids were fluttering, irises appearing glassy and unfocussed. And then I saw it. A piece of glass was stuck in the left side of his neck. The windshield apparently had broken with the impact and my brother was lucky enough to get a piece lodged right in his trachea. It was thick, bright red blood – that I could’ve sworn was sparkling in my current inebriated perspective – was gushing out the side, so heavy I could smell it, taste it, in the air. I was frozen once I realized.

Do something, do something! Put pressure on it! Call 9-1-1! My mind was screaming at me, but it was all I could do to sit and watch the blood stain his clothes. He was wearing the corduroy jacket I’d gotten him for his birthday and a white button up, the red seeped into them until it was as if they’d always been that colour. My voice was caught in my throat, but I managed to push some sound past.

“Ray?” It was weaker than a whisper but in the silence that seemed to envelope us in that car, completely independent of the outside world and sirens that could surely be heard from blocks away, I knew he would be able to hear me.

He looked up, eyes focussing slightly on me, and a tear slipped down his face, only it went the wrong way since we were still upside down. He mouthed the words “I love you”. We never said that to each other. As close as we were, our relationship had always been more comparable to that of a best friend than sibling. We weren’t overly affectionate, never hugged or said I love you, hung out for enjoyment rather than as a punishment. Most people didn’t know we were brother and sister until we pointed it out, we never really looked alike and were absent of the traditional distaste and rivalry usually present between siblings. I knew, as he looked me in the eyes and said those words, this would be the last time I’d ever see him outside of a morgue.

I sat in my seat next to him with dry eyes, wishing desperately I could cry, needing to express the feeling of utter horror and despondency that completely overtook my body and mind, but I couldn’t. Barb told me time and time again that I was in shock, there was nothing I could’ve done, but I will never be able to believe that. I still remember the moment the final tear slipped down his face. He smiled at me, pain evident in his eyes. His entire body was covered in the metallic smelling red, and I wanted to vomit. I wish I could say the crash had sobered me, but it didn’t, not really. I was still entirely in a daze as I saw his muscles relax, smiling falling from his face, eyes not quite rolling back all the way but enough to give me nightmares for the next 20 years. The life had been absorbed from his body, leaving a heavy shell. I was told afterwards this all happened within the span of 10 minutes, but it felt like years. By the time the first responders had appeared I was an old woman. Grayed hair, and arthritic bones. Mourning for the brother I’d lost oh so many years ago, when I was just a girl. I think in a way I died in that car with him, I never was really the same. But who would be? Best friend and confidant, older brother, idol, dying in front of your eyes as you do nothing, knowing for the rest of your life that his death is – was – your fault. Knowing you could’ve done something, anything really, to prevent his untimely loss of life before the paramedics arrived. If I’d been the same after that night I would have to be much more disturbed than I ever thought.

I sat in that car beside Ray’s corpse for 3 more minutes before I heard the sirens closing in around us – me. I thought I might pass out, either from the toll of what I’d just witnessed or from my concussion, but I remained upright, probably from the adrenaline. I couldn’t move so I just waited, and hoped I’d die too before anyone reached the scene. It would be much preferrable to any other outcome I could think of at the time. I could vaguely register the pain in my wrist, but I felt so numb I’m sure you could’ve shot me in the foot and I wouldn’t have blinked.

A young fireman named Walter ended up getting me out of the car. The door was smashed and stuck which meant I’d been trapped in there either way. I was happy I hadn’t bothered trying to escape as I'm terribly claustrophobic and finding out I couldn’t would have thrown me into a proper panic attack. The fireman was incredibly nice, saying reassuring things the entire time they were opening the door with the “Jaws of Life”. I ended up seeing him again in the hospital actually, or at least that’s what my father told me. He wanted to check in on me and left me some hydrangeas in a vase. I always preferred chrysanthemums but I'm not that picky when it comes to a floral arrangement.

After the door was busted open I was carried out by Walter. I was shaking and apparently babbling nonsense but in my head I was trying to tell them to save Ray. I wasn’t really aware of all that much, completely blind to the crowd of spectators that had rudely gathered to witness the violence – wasn’t it supposed to be taboo to stop at a car crash? Wondering vaguely about what happened and wishing you could get a better look as you drive past the scene. My head wound had made me a bit incompetent and the meth in my system was really not helping the entire situation.

I was laid on a gurney and rolled onto an ambulance. I don’t remember much about the ride; the sirens, the bright lights, a paramedic named Alice who spoke softly, smoothing out my hair while the other put an oxygen mask on my face (which I wasn’t entirely cognizant enough to question though now I'm not really sure why they did it) and splinted my wrist. Alice asked me if I was on drugs and I nodded but was unable to speak when she asked me what ( I would find this a common occurrence after the accident, my voice seemingly stolen alongside Ray’s). She just nodded and said something to the other ME that I didn’t quite pick up. She asked if I could tell her my name and I shook my head. She must’ve noticed the iPhone in my pocket and grabbed it, turning to the medical ID page.

“Is your name Begonia?” I nodded, though the name sounded foreign on my ears. I liked the way Alice said it though, she had a light Spanish accent and a matronly tone that made me feel safe. I wondered if she had kids of her own; she looked young, but my own mother had me at 19 so who could say? She told me her name after complimenting mine. “Begonia is a beautiful name; I love the flowers. I’m Alice, okay? We’re gonna make sure you’re alright and take you to the hospital.” Her voice was sweet like syrup and I became sleepy as she spoke.

“No honey, you can’t fall asleep yet. Just stay awake a little bit longer and I promise you they’ll let you sleep at the hospital.”

I don’t remember anything of the rest of the ride to the hospital. I was dropped off at the Emergency Room at the Regional, head still too foggy to allow me to recall anything before I was sitting in a white bed, in a white room, with white sheets and a light blue hospital gown on. It was morning and my father was sitting at the end of my bed in an uncomfortable plastic chair, his eyes bloodshot and moist. He’d very obviously been crying for a long time and my chest panged with guilt. I reached up to feel my head and realized there was a cast on my wrist. With my other hand I touched the cotton that covered my forehead, wincing when I felt the sting of what had to be stitches in a nasty gash. I would spend the next 5 years of my life with a variety of diverse haircuts that attempted to hide the ugly scar that served as a reminder of the worst night of my life. Even now it is still extremely obvious, but I can’t be bothered to try and hide it, I so rarely look in the mirror that it wouldn’t matter if my skin turned blue.

My dad hadn’t looked up, so I attempted to gain his attention but once again found my voice failing me. I tapped on the bed a few times before he seemed to realize and face me.

“Nia… how are you feeling?” His voice was raspy and thin. He reeked of cigarettes and stale coffee, though this wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. I remained silent as he looked at me, searching my face for something I'm not sure he found.

“Nia, I, I'm not sure how to say this to you.” Here it comes. Almost worse than watching my brother die, the confirmation. “Ray, he’s, well dead.” I saw my father’s eyes begin to tear up again as I stared straight ahead. I couldn’t feel the sobs that racked my body, nor the hot tears streaming from my eyes. I saw my dad start to move closer but sit back down when I flinched. Of course, I knew my brother was dead; I had front row seats to watching the event happen, but somehow I still didn’t believe it until the words left my father’s mouth. According to my dad, who many years later described to me how eery the whole event was, my sobs were completely silent, and I was entirely unaware of everything happening around me. This dissociation lasted the first few days after the accident, and the entirety of my hospital stay. Leaving the blissful gap in my memory I have now.

Barb told me this was my mind’s way of coping with the tragedy and stress of what happened. I was honestly just happy I had an excuse to skip some of the dreadful retelling she forced upon me.

❈

The funeral was of course a depressing and solemn event. I was still yet to speak and found myself thankful for the way people gave up on trying to get me to communicate. I dressed in a black skirt with a black short sleeved button up. A dark coat thrown around my shoulders as the cast on my right hand was too big to fit through the sleeve. I looked terrible, barely a week out of hospital before I watched Ray sink into the ground. The wound on my forehead was still quite nasty, though it looked better than it did before. I tried to cover it up with my hair but was unsuccessful. I got bangs soon after.

The matter was very traditional, taking place in a church even though none of our family was really religious. It was only the second time I'd ever been in a church, the first having been for my cousin Julie’s wedding when I was four years old. I don’t remember anything of it aside from the material of my dress itching at my neck and making me rather miserable. Of course, not nearly as miserable as I was the day of the funeral, sitting in a pew at the front of the church, listening to a priest claiming Ray would’ve wanted us to celebrate his life. I knew this not to be true; Ray was extremely dramatic and would’ve cherished the thought of everyone he’d ever spoken to moping around for weeks after his death, beside themselves with grief. He sometimes referred to himself as “Romeo” after having been broken up with by another girl he was supposedly in love with, stating he better just stab himself in the heart now if he couldn’t have her. On the rare occasion he broke up with a girlfriend, he’d lounge around, eating ice cream, pretending to not be upset and comparing his cold heart to that of Richard VIII. The concept of him being any different over his death was almost comical; Ray was nothing if not predictable.

I sat beside my father, who sat beside my mother (it was an extremely awkward arrangement that neither I nor my father cared for) and seemed to have the idea that I could evaporate if I thought hard enough about it. Unfortunately, I did not evaporate, or even come close to it, instead finding myself exactly where I'd been the whole time. I mostly tuned out the service, only really paying attention when my father and Ray’s best friend, Jake spoke. I managed to escape the duty of having to speak that day thanks to my fragile mental state and mutism. Though I'm sure I would’ve been forced all the same if I had been able to talk in any capacity, regardless of where my head was at.

Faun was sitting in the pew behind me, feeling quite guilty about the whole ordeal. Or friendship dissolved soon after, I think she blamed herself for taking me to the party. It didn’t bother me too much though; we were never the closest and I sometimes thought her to be extremely annoying. An endless stream of shitty boyfriends that she only acquired so she could further repress her sexuality. When we were 14 we kissed at a sleepover and she admitted she was in love with me. I felt bad for not returning the feeling and our relationship had been on rocky territory ever since. I don’t understand how she thought she was in love with me since she barely knew anything about me, but either way she never brought it up again and soon after the monsoon of boytoys had begun.

My brother’s friends and ex-girlfriends also attended the event. I didn’t approach any of them, far too scared they’d blame me for the death of their friend. One of them, Alex, went up to me to say how sorry he was about everything that happened. He was crying quite heavily (I later found out he was the friend Ray had been drinking with and the second last person to see him alive) and I could smell alcohol on his breath. I stood there while he spoke, telling me about how great my brother was as if I was wholly unaware. Body waving side to side as he stood with his hand on the wall beside me. He offered me some bronze liquid in a flask, and I obliged, savouring the burning sensation that followed in my throat. Alex’s voice was steady and deep, reminding me of my father’s. I’m not sure how long we stood there, him spinning a fantastic web of anecdotes and stories about my brother, some entirely new to my ears. We passed the beverage back and fourth until it was empty. My head felt lighter and heavier somehow simultaneously, and I found it much easier to listen to Alex talk. Later he tried to kiss me in my bedroom during the wake. His mouth was sour, and his tongue seemed too big for his mouth. I wondered how he was able to talk so much without it getting in the way.

We moved in procession to the cemetery after the service. The grass was a vibrant green colour, and I didn’t understand how the world kept turning after Ray’s death, for mine stopped the moment his heart failed to beat. The sky was a lovely shade of cyan-blue, with clouds so perfect they seemed animated. Pink carnations were planted near the outskirts of the yard and I could smell spring in the air; a heavy, floral aroma that never failed to comfort me. I thought it should be raining, it felt inappropriate that the weather refused to match my despair. My mind wandered as we approached the empty grave and I considered what it would be like if Ray was here beside me. He’d probably be making jokes, telling me to lighten up for a minute or my face would get stuck that way. He’d mock my silence, saying how I never managed to shut up for a minute before but suddenly I'm as proper as a nun. I'd smile, ruffling his hair to piss him off and try to refrain from laughing aloud. The absence of him only felt stronger as I imagined this scenario, so I shoved it out of my head.

The casket was lowered into the ground, my father was a pallbearer and I often think about how he must’ve felt carrying his son’s body before watching him being buried. My mother sobbed loudly which annoyed me, it felt a bit exaggerated. I had a few tears falling from my eyes but mostly, I just felt numb. Incredibly and absolutely empty inside. To onlookers it may have seemed as though we weren’t very close, my reaction being similar to that of his ex-girlfriends’. However, this didn’t account for the loss of my voice, or the broken state I was in mentally. Maybe it was better that my reaction was rather dulled. It meant people didn’t feel the need to approach me as they did my mother. Less concerned given she was the one playing up her emotions to the point of embarrassment. My father cried, more than I but far less than my mother. He didn’t cry very often – I'd actually only seen it once prior to the whole event – and I figured he probably needed it. At this point I felt as though I'd shed enough tears to last a lifetime so Ray wouldn’t mind if I was a bit subdued in comparison. He never was a crier anyways.

As I sprinkled soil onto his casket I imagined he was right beside me, watching, ready to criticize as usual. The dirt stained my hand, clutching the sweat and turning my skin a muddy brown colour. As I wiped the dirt on my jacket I could hear him nagging about how I better go wash my hands, what was I, a six-year-old? He was in denial about me growing up and took every chance to remind me I was still just a kid. Not that he had much on me, but I enjoyed it. I never was one to shy away from attention; at least not before. Little quirks and inside jokes between us were always some of my favourite things, the type of humour you could only get from living with someone your whole life. No matter how much his memory will fade there are some things I can’t let myself forget. His mocking tone when he’d make fun of me is one of those things. If I ever managed to let go of that sound then I must be dead as well.

The sun beat down on my back, my skin burning in my black clothes. I wasn’t sweating yet, but most of the men around were – suit jackets aren’t exactly known for their breathability. My nose was dry and aching red, sore from how much I'd been wiping it the last couple days. Still the sweet seeping tinge of flowers and spring managed to crawl into my nose, settling underneath my skin, the buzzing from before had returned, I could feel my heartbeat loudly in my throat and had the desperate urge to just run. Instead, I just followed the rest of the party, sitting down in the passenger seat of my dad’s car. The silence that settled over us was uncomfortable and stale. He turned on the radio, Led Zeppelin filled the air around us, thankfully relieving some of the tension. I felt in my left pocket for one of the carnations I’d picked from a nearby grave earlier. The flower had begun to wilt, heat taking effect on its delicate composition. When I got home I put it in between the pages of my oldest copy of Romeo and Juliet. Ray would have found it funny if he was around to see.

The drive to my mother’s house was short and minimally awkward. We sat in silence – aside from the music – only because there was no alternative. My hand remained clutched around the dying flower in my pocket as we left the car and entered the home. Other people had already arrived, clustered in the living room, picking at tiny ham sandwiches and various desserts my mother had undoubtedly stress-baked the day before. I wasn’t hungry so I sat as far away from the food and people as humanely possible while staying in the living room, not wishing to hear my mother’s scolding about how I need to socialize more. Eventually I managed to slip away into my old bedroom, where Alex was sitting on my bed drinking a mickey of Smirnoff I assumed he swiped from my mother’s freezer. He offered it to me, and I accepted, the weird repetitive déjà vu like act, mirroring earlier and making the whole day feel like somewhat of a dream.

When I went over this part with Barb she always felt the need to emphasize that it wasn’t a dream. I knew this, obviously, which I told her every time, but she was inclined to disbelief when it came to my denial over my brother’s death. “Begonia, you must realize he’s gone. Dwelling is helping nobody, especially not you. This isn’t a healthy mindset for you to have. Always comparing living to your dreams. I want you to tell me you understand this isn’t just some dream you can wake up from.” The first time she said that to me I was thrust into a bout of wordlessness, as it struck a bit too close to home. The next time she brought it up I just told her of course, though even now I still cannot say I fully understand. How can I when all of my assumptions have been constantly disproven time and time again. How can I ever say this isn’t a dream when I'm not even sure I'm real? James always tries to reassure me, “Bee, I'm telling you, if you can feel this beat, the pulse in your wrist, your neck, your chest, you are alive,” he’ll say while pressing my hand to my wrist, but we both know it isn’t that simple.

Me and Alex made out for a few minutes until I managed to excuse myself. He was a bad kisser and tasted disgusting. I left him sitting on my old bed while I went downstairs to find my dad. He was sitting at the counter with a can of root beer, blank expression sat upon his face. When his eyes met mine he sighed, grabbing his keys out of his pocket. It was obvious neither of us wanted to be here, for numerous reasons, so we left. And if the radio stayed off as we drove home we didn’t acknowledge the silence that time. In my hand was the crumpled carnation, and for some reason it made my chest hurt. A deep ache of dread. I could feel my heartbeat, hear it over the drum of the car engine, and I crushed the flower further. I was careful not to rip it though, as if that was crossing some kind of invisible line my mind had set for me. My fingers felt waxy when I finally let go.

Back home, I opened the copy of Romeo and Juliet. I retrieved the deteriorating plant from my pocket and placed it in the center. Closing the book, I stacked it under a few dictionaries, a magazine under it so it was trapped on either side. I sat down in front of it and cried. Not the huge gasping sobs my mother seemed to fancy, nor the quiet weeping of my father. No, I cried the tears of a child who just found out their grandparents died, the soft uncomprehending grief that overcame them as they first learned what death really meant. How long forever was. My legs pulled up to my chest, hands loosely hung around knees, unable to clasp together because of my cast. I closed my eyes and I swear I could hear the sound of Ray sighing behind me, but when I opened my eyes I was alone. I went to bed, earlier than I ever had in my life, still believing it was a dream and I'd wake up like Alice after her adventures in Wonderland. But when I awoke, I was met with the slow, oozing perdure of my reality. The one which I could not wake up from, and the one where my brother was dead.

#my writing #writing #original writing #original content #original fiction #creative writing #dark academia #tw death #tw drugs #tw mentions of sex #tw swearing #tw mental illness #tw medication #alo writes

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grapefruitsketches · 4 years

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Untamed Spring Fest 2020 - Day 7: Pastel

2,278 Words

YanQing, Wen Qing, Jiang Yanli, hurt/comfort, fluff & angst, set around Episode 17 of CQL (at the Yiling Supervisory Office)

“With grey clouds starting to form overhead, she didn’t like that she didn’t know where Yanli was.”

Wen Qing had guests, but that didn’t make her a host. She was busy. Between preparing various tonics and ointments, supervising Wen Ning, her daily trips into Yiling proper to restock supplies, and visiting various patients, she had hardly had time to talk to her brother about the three traumatized Yunmeng siblings now staying in her home. Her guests didn’t seem all that interested in speaking to her anyway at the moment.

Even though she couldn’t dispute that it was easier to work without them under her feet, she wished that Jiang Cheng was awake, that Wei Wuxian was making trouble. She wished, above all, that they would all get better if only to relieve the sullen look on Wen Ning’s face.

Wen Ning had always been upbeat - had been the ray of idealistic optimism to her cynical pragmatism. She needed Wen Ning to be alright, to be happy, and safe. If not, what had this all been for anyway?

As she cleared the empty soup bowls from Wei Wuxian’s table, Wen Qing realized that she hadn’t seen Yanli all day. Yanli had spent most of her time since her arrival acting as the perfect image of a doting sister. She cooked and sat by her brother’s bedside. She even kept Wen Ning company, bringing a smile to his face as she asked him questions about the medicines that Wen Ning was only too proud to answer.

Wen Qing understood Yanli’s impulse well. She had felt it herself during her and Wen Ning’s first nights in Nightless City. Keep busy. Keep the others’ spirits up. Be the rock in the storm that had destroyed everything they’d ever known. If she wasn’t the rock, who would be? Show any sign of weakness and they would be swept away in an instant. Wen Qing understood that this structure, this work towards normalcy, could be a powerful coping mechanism. But she also knew that Yanli had a fever and that she did not want anyone, especially her brothers, to worry about.

Without ever bringing it up, Wen Qing had been keeping an eye on the fever. She had been happy to see that Yanli seemed able to maintain her regular sleeping schedule mostly without stumbling, but Wen Qing wished she would dedicate some time to healing. With grey clouds starting to form overhead, she didn’t like that she didn’t know where Yanli was.

The supervisory office was big, but not that big, and Wen Qing did not see Yanli as the kind of person to wander off into areas of the residence that Wen Qing had not shown her. Yanli was not in the kitchen, or her own quarters, or the library, or at Jiang Cheng’s bedside. Wen Qing quickly checked on the sleeping Jiang Cheng before continuing her search. She had only been outside for a few moments before one drop, then two, then a steady shower of rain covered the courtyard - Wen Qing included. Something about the water… the sudden rain on a previously sunny day, sparked a memory.

The pond.

Where else would a child of Lotus Pier go for comfort than to the nearest body of water?

Wen Qing grabbed an umbrella from her quarters, and set off towards the back of the residence, confident that the eldest lotus would be there.

Wen Qing remembered her and Yanli’s first real conversation, back in the Cloud Recesses. Wen Qing had been walking by the riverbank, grateful that she had brought an umbrella, unsure as always whether she actually wanted to find what Wen Ruohan had sent her for, or whether it would be better if his goals were simply unachievable. She had at that moment noticed a figure, draped in white with pastel purple designs and an elegant hairpiece, soaked, sitting on a rock, and rubbing her temples.

“Yanli?” Wen Qing was surprised to see anyone else out in this rain.

They had talked all the way back. Despite her fever, Jiang Yanli was a lively conversationalist. Wen Qing had wondered whether she bored Yanli. To hear Yanli laugh as she described her brothers’ antics, or sigh as she wondered whether she truly felt love for Jin Zixuan, or if she had just resolved herself to be happy because they would be married regardless… Wen Qing could not think of any stories she could reciprocate with. The happy childhood stories Yanli described, and the innocent romantic worries could only be answered by Wen Qing’s experiences of tragedy, too heavy to be borne by such a light and airy mood. She could not discuss her thoughts right now either. She couldn’t exactly tell a Jiang that she was on a covert mission to spy on the Lans.

Wen Qing was lost in this moment of self-pity as she lead Yanli to the bed and covered her with heavy blankets. When she turned towards her medicine stores to find something for dizziness, Yanli’s flow of musings paused for a moment, then, “Thank you Wen Qing.”

Wen Qing turned back, holding the medicine with a soft smile on her face, “It is my job. I am a doctor after all.”

Yanli started to shake her head, then blinked, reaching to steady her probably still swirling world, “No, not just that, I mean.” She fell silent, looking embarrassed all of the sudden.

“What is it?” Wen Qing had encouraged.

“I admire you.” Yanli confessed, “You are always so strong, looking out for your brother, studying the lessons, cultivation, medicine. I can’t help but envy you sometimes, you know.” Yanli smiled, “You do so much and even then, you found time to help me, to… to listen to me.” Yanli looked Wen Qing directly in the eyes, “It means a lot.”

Envy me? Wen Qing tilted her head in confusion, she whispered under her breath, “Jiang Yanli, it is I who should be envious of you.” A loud knock on the door signalled to her that the other Yunmeng siblings had learned of their sister’s whereabouts, and were ready to bring on some new exciting and happy stories to share. She smiled, and hoped that one day, she and Wen Ning would have more chances for such moments together.

As she approached the pond towards the back of the Yiling Supervisory Office residence, Wen Qing heard a few sniffs. She should have brought some medicine with her. With this rain, Yanli’s fever was sure to be…

But it was not a fever that Yanli was trying to hide this time. Instead, her sniffs came alongside the tears streaming silently down her face. The rain did a pretty good job concealing them, but Wen Qing’s sharp eye and the hint of puffiness around the oldest Jiang’s eyes betrayed the truth.

Wen Qing wondered at Jiang Yanli then. The woman was sitting by the pond, increasingly drenched in the downpour. Despite this, Wen Qing thought that Yanli looked every bit the tragic heroine so often depicted in the fantastic stories and bright, colourful illustrations Wen Qing had loved as a child. She had long assumed such images could only be the product of a very romantic imagination. But here Yanli was. She looked as though she had stepped out of a painting.

While it was good to cry, Jiang Yanli should not have to do so alone, not when Wen Qing knew she was so often the emotional anchor when others needed to let loose. Wen Qing stepped slowly but confidently along the rain-slicked stone path. “Can I sit here?” she asked kindly, gesturing to the rock next to Yanli’s. Wen Qing held her umbrella over her guest.

“Oh!” Yanli started, leaning a bit too far to the left. Wen Qing gracefully caught her at the elbow before she could slip off the stone. Yanli blinked, “Thank you. Yes. Yes of course you can sit. Sorry.” She turned her head away, moving to wipe her tears with the back of her hand.

Wen Qing caught her hand, “It’s ok. I am happy to see you let some of your tears out. It’s not good to keep them bottled up you know.”

Yanli choked out a small laugh, timidly glancing at her held hand, “But A-Xian… A-Cheng… I need to…”

“They’re not here.” Wen Qing cut her off, Yanli would not be the first patient who she had had to talk down, “I am, and you are, and they’re back inside, safe. I want to make sure you are safe too.” Wen Qing gripped Yanli’s hand firmly.

Yanli’s gaze shifted up, meeting Wen Qing’s eyes, she nodded, “Of course. If you are telling me as my doctor I…”

“Not just as your doctor.” Wen Qing corrected, refusing to break the eye contact that was quickly drawing heat to her face, “As someone who cares about you, Jiang Yanli. I’m telling you right now, you can let it out.”

This seemed to be enough to break the already strained dam. Yanli buried her face in her hands, and sobbed. “They’re gone, Wen Qing. They’re all gone. Mother. Father.” Yanli’s shaking intensified, “The Juniors. The Seniors. I think I may even have lost A-Cheng and A-Xian. The things they must have seen… Oh, Wen Qing, I’m just… I’m so useless!” Yanli wailed, folding over onto Wen Qing’s shoulder.

Useless? Wen Qing pet her awkwardly on the back, unsure how to even begin refuting such a baseless statement.

The crying stopped, but Wen Qing could feel that Yanli had not relaxed. If anything, she had tensed in Wen Qing’s arms. “It’s because of me he lost his golden core, you know.” Yanli whispered, muffled by Wen Qing’s robes such that Wen Qing could only barely make her out.

What? Wen Qing took Yanli firmly by the shoulders and pushed her back into an upright decision, “No. No it was not.” Wen Qing did not even bother to quell her fierce tone, or to leave room for the possibility that Yanli was right.

“If I… if I had been awake, if A-Xian hadn’t had to go get medicine for me, A-Cheng wouldn’t have been able to slip away.” Yanli’s voice was eerily quiet after the loud sobs moments before, “I should have kept an eye on him and then…”

“And then the Wen soldiers would have stopped looking for you? And Wen Chao would forget about you, would have stopped wanting to set Wen Zhuliu on any of you that he could get his hands on? That’s what would have happened if you had not had a fever?” Wen Qing shook her head firmly, “No. No it would not.”

“But if I were stronger, if I had ever properly formed a golden core myself I at least could have helped instead I just…”

“When we were younger, my brother had some of his spiritual cognition forcibly taken while I sat right there, beside him.” Wen Qing hadn’t really meant to say that out loud, to cut Yanli off, but it had gotten Yanli’s attention. Her eyes had gone wide.

“Wen Qing! I’m… I-I can’t imagine what that must… you have been so strong.”

“Are you not going to blame me for not stepping in front of my brother? Or pulling him aside?”

“No… why would…?”

“I could have saved him then a lot more easily than you could have saved Jiang Cheng, while you were recovering from a fever and severe shock.” Wen Qing caught Yanli with a steady gaze, still holding her at arm’s length, “So if you are to blame for Jiang Cheng’s golden core, then I should blame myself for failing to save Wen Ning, for not saving more of my clan, when I had the chance. Is that what I should do?”

Yanli fell silent. Wen Qing tried to maintain her hard look until Yanli admitted she was wrong, but her chin betrayed her, wobbling despite herself, and she could feel the pricks of tears of her own threatening the corners of her eyes.

“Oh, Wen Qing.” Yanli reached out and gently stroked the other woman’s trembling jaw, before snapping her hand back quickly, “Sorry.”

Wen Qing reached out, cupping the side of Yanli’s head in her hand, “Please, no more apologies. You’ve truly done nothing wrong” Yanli smiled and leaned into her hand.

Just as quickly as the rain had started, it stopped. Yanli pulled her head back from Wen Qing’s hand, as Wen Qing withdrew her other hand from Yanli’s shoulder. They giggled, breaking the tension of the warmth they’d each felt at the other’s touch, and looked out over the pond. Fresh sunbeams danced on the water’s surface, kissing the petals of a single lotus, glorious in its full bloom.

“Come.” Wen Qing commanded, pulling Yanli up beside her, ”Let’s get you into some dry clothes.” Wen Qing put a hand to Yanli’s forehead and tutted, “You will never recover if we don’t warm you up and make sure you rest.”

“Mmm.” Yanli agreed, taking the arm Wen Qing offered.

Wen Qing still had medicines to prepare, patients to tend to, shopping to do, and all that on top of her and Wei Wuxian’s research. But she was even busier than that. Each and every day, she made time for Yanli. And whether they cooked together (Wen Qing could cobble together a subpar version of the lotus and rib soup now) or prepared tonics (Jiang Yanli picked up the importance of maintaining temperature and the various scents of different medicinal herbs quickly), they treasured this time. Together, they formed their own little oasis, where they could, for at least a little while, ignore the storm building just outside.

#untamed spring fest #the untamed #yanqing #jiang yanli #wen qing #mdzs #my writing

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stardust-and-blades · 5 years

Text

Lost Future AU pt.5

I honestly should just make this an AO3 story, what is with me and tragedy

(EDIT): Dumb bitch don’t even know what parts these are but I think I fixed it

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Beep...Beep...Beep...

Lance does not remember falling asleep. His body doesn’t recognize the bed underneath him, his bones slowly awakening from paralysis and gliding across rough, white sheets. Lance blinks away the sleep, his hand moving to rub away the flecks dusting his eyelashes. But when he does it is heavy; held down by an unknown force. When he tried to bend it, a sharp pain shoots up his arm, Lance grunting in response. Why did his arm hurt so much, and why is it heavy?

“Shh, lay down, mijo.” A woman says, placing a hand on his shoulder and gently pushing him back down. Lance’s vision is blurry, but he can make out the wild, fluffy curls and kind blue eyes he has been raised with. His mother brushes his hair back, ignoring the slick coating her palm and fixing the blankets around Lance.

“Mama?” Lance says groggily. “What...Where am I?”

“You’re at the hospital, dear. You were in a very bad accident.” She says all too gently. “They called me as soon as they brought you in.”

“An...accident.”

Yes, he is starting to remember now. The semi, the slick roads, his inability to control the car at 30 miles an hour in a 50 zone--

The flash of red cloth engulfing his vision before he was surrounded by darkness.

Him coming into consciousness briefly, calling out a name... a name dear to him. A name he spoke many times in the past four years. A name he yelled when irritated or bursting with excitement, a name he called out to in the heat of passion, bruised lips and hot skin invading his senses. The name he uttered in the darkest corner of the room, his face wet from a horrible day. The name he giggled when he surprised the person on their birthday, the one dripping with adoration and honeyed pet-names, despite the other blushing red and hiding in the hood of his jacket.

The name he took a knee for and wrapped metal and a diamond around his finger, twirling him around in their small apartment at the happiness they were bestowed.

The name drenched in his own blood as they hung from their seats, dark hair covering his face while being caked in his own rivers of crimson.

The name he shouted to the officers for them to save when he was semi-conscious, losing his grip on situation as he was pulled yet again into a dark embrace.

He suddenly tries to sit up, letting out a small howl of pain as the wrapping around his ribcage pierces into him. He is fully awake now, and he needs to know what happened.

His mother pushes him down again as his head whips around, scanning his room for a second bed. For a second comatose body with Shiro at the side, fallen asleep from the long night of “what ifs” and shuffling doctors.

“Keith--where is Keith?” He asks, wild. “He was with me in the car. Is he okay? Where is he? Where is him and Shiro?”

“Lance, Lance my boy,” she hushes. “Please lay down, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

He stops, his worried irises meeting sad, avoiding twins. His mother didn’t answer his question. Why is her jaw clenched shut, her eyes swimming with unshed tears? Why did she wince when Lance set his attention on her, his desire for an answer growing bigger than him. Why did her hand tighten around his uninjured one, covering the engagement ring his wore with pride?

“Lance...About...About Keith...”

“What? What about him? Mama, please tell me he is okay. “

She closes her eyes, a tear falling out. “My dear boy...I am so sorry.” She closes her mouth, covering it with a fist as she breathed in, her core shaking. Breaking for her youngest. Cursing the fates for turning their backs on them. Lance sat there, frozen in place as his mother cried, not connecting two and two together. She must be crying because he is in critical condition. It must be. That would explain Lance in a stable unit. Keith is in the ICU, being monitored by doctors and nurses alike, Shiro anxiously waiting for Keith to wake up from the injuries. Afterall, he couldn’t be--he couldn’t be--

“Lance, he passed away. When the paramedics arrived on the scene, it was already too late.”

The ice keeping him at bay shattered. It plunged him into a sea of deadly waters and stabbing icicles. It seized his veins and altered them into brittle snowflakes, melting with the antarctic. The iceberg, carefully concealed by the frosted fog and endless depths, hit him as hard as the titanic. He can feel himself breaking--his mind unravelling as the realization hits him.

Keith is no longer in the world.

Lance does not immediately react. He is completely still in his mother’s arms, eyes unseeing as they stare at his itchy blanket. He isn’t even sure if he is breathing. All he can process is the ring on his finger will never become a wedding ring. That its partner is not hooked up to IV’s and held by its adopted family, but cold and wrapped around a finger with no pulse; the red stone living in a crevice now surrounded by its owner’s blood.

No, this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. This isn’t right. This has to be a joke. A cruel, cruel joke. Keith was just right next to him. He was holding Lance’s hand at a stop light. Joking about the decor being too fancy. The two betting against the other on who is going to cry first at the reception.

But now it is like he is drowning. Like he is running to Keith; reaching out to him. Begging him to come back. But Keith can’t hear him. Lance can’t touch him. His back is to Lance, facing a light Lance cannot follow. Deaf to his love’s screams. Blind to what the light represents.

Don’t go. Please don’t leave me. You promised. You promised we would be happy.

It isn’t until his mother’s arms tightens and whispering his favorite song that he realizes he is crying. She only sang the song when he was upset. And he is upset, but it does not bring him relief. It just makes him cry harder, Lance burying his face in her arms as she joins him in his sadness. She loved his fiance as if he were her own son. She can recall the moment Lance introduced him to her, a nervous young man who hid behind his gloves and striking, defensive indigo eyes. How he stiffened when she welcomed him with warmth, yet embraced her with as much care. He wasn’t as enthusiastic, but she knew his reciprocation spoke louder than words. He didn’t hug often, but when he did he made it count.

And he made it count to love her son. When she heard the news and saw Shiro outside of the room they tried to revive him in one last time, she was hit with a wave of pain in her chest, it bleeding for her son and the loss of the boy she desperately wanted to call son-in-law.

She doesn’t leave Lance’s side. Not when he exhausts himself of tears, and not when he requests to see the body. He is on crutches, yet he does not let that stop him.

She held his hand like when he was a little boy--scared of the new world and gripping his mother’s dress as the kindergarten teacher aided in prying him off of her.

Now it is her prying at him, wishing him to not look at the dead body. Asking him if he is sure in his decision. Internally wanting to cover his eyes and lead him back to bed.

But she lets him go and watches as he moves the dark hair away from the pale, scarred face, Keith’s expression looking to be more asleep than dead. Lance gazes down, ignoring the shivers coursing through his bones from the temperature.

He bends down and kisses Keith’s far too cold forehead. As he does, she can see a small tear land on Keith’s cheek, as if he too is crying for the happiness stolen from their fingertips.

#shania writes #klance #klangst #keith kogane #lance mcclain #VLD #voltron #lost future au #oOPS #I need to write fluff rather than angst wrow

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i4z-0892-il · 5 years

Text

TLC

Author: Jena @i4z-0892-il

Summary: When he comes home worse for wear Y/n just wants to be able to take care of Sam.

Pairing: Sam x Reader

Word count: 5100

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, Smut, unprotected sex (wrap it up y’all), Oral sex (male receiving)

A/N: Fluff, love making, sweet stuff. Immerse yourself in the story with @scentsfromthebunker‘s Sam

Tag List

Masterlist

7:25pm

Y/n tapped fingernails against the tabletop, the steady click-click-click numbing her mind, unable to focus on the old text in front of her. Time ticked by at a grueling pace, and did nothing but spark the slow burn of anxiety. Soon her fingernails were tapping rapidly, and her leg bounced under her without her permission or conscious knowledge so violently that the entire table shook. No calls, no texts, just radio silence for what seemed like an eternity. The dead air gave way for paranoia, seeping and permeating her mind with visions of worst case scenarios. Her boys were tough, and resilient and there was nothing they couldn’t emerge from victorious, but they were only human. Humans make mistakes, and mistakes- no matter how small- could lead to tragedy. Knowing she should have gone with them did nothing to ease the distress that built like an ember flicking into a full blown fire. Of course she should have, she should have insisted more. She should have pressed a little harder, been a little more stubborn. But no. There was still work that had to be done at home base, and they were supposed to have it covered.

“It’ll be a milk run.” Dean had said.

It was only a Werewolf.

Only one little, dangerous, volatile, supercharged Werewolf.

They could handle it with their hands tied behind their backs and their eyes closed. There was no doubting that. But each time she looked at the clock another hour passed, another hour further away from when they should have been back, that doubt emerged. Chewing on her fingernail all she could do was stare at the hands of clock each tick jarring and mocking her that it was a death knell.

11:10pm

With a huff in her chest she slammed the worn book shut and stood attempting to shake the anxiousness from her bones, trying to soothe the fear that crept into the back of her mind taking up more space than was welcome.

They should have been back by now, they should have been back hours ago.

This wasn’t the plan.

Y/n stayed up far too long in the library in the company of musky, tattered books and Jack Daniels, drinking away her nerves.

3:17am

She fell fully clothed into a bed far too large, and vast, and cool without Sam’s massive frame to fill it, and slipped into a whiskey drenched slumber.

6:45am

Waking up first thing he was supposed to have been there, shifting weight in the bed and radiating heat with a long heavy arm wrapped around her waist pulling her back into his firm and broad chest. The smell of sweat, shampoo and his warm vanilla, sandalwood scent would fill her senses. Those mornings when he came back after a hunt were hazy and golden with fresh morning light, heavenly, like something that only existed on another plane that only they shared. He was supposed to be there, strong jawed and intoxicating, to look at her through half-lidded, tired hazel eyes, soft pink lips curling up into a lazy smile at the corners, bringing out those dimples she loved.

Those were some of her favorite mornings, despite the torture of having to miss him for days at a time. It was because he’d study her face, just like she’d etch his into her memory. His color shifting eyes staying on her and filled with the love he’d never had the gumption to speak out loud, but that she knew existed beyond the words. Long fingers would curl into her hair and he would kiss her as if it was the first time, and linger at her lips, sweet and savoring. The world around them would melt away until it was just her and Sam.

Then there would be coffee and breakfast with bacon, eggs and toast, and they’d feast like they’d been starving for days, as they filled her in on what had happened while they were away. Playful insults and teasing would punctuate light conversation.

“Y/n, you want some coffee with that?” Dean would ask as she sipped her brew with too much creamer in it, but that was how she liked it, light and sweet. Sam would thread his long fingers in hers and all would right in their world.

Instead she woke abruptly to emptiness, and an eerie stillness in the air. Y/n drank her coffee alone, and had no appetite for breakfast. Busying herself for the first few hours was more or less easy, some light cleaning, collecting several dozen plaid shirts scattered about, at that point she had no idea which ones belonged to which Winchester, she just stuffed them all in the washer and hoped they could sort it out later. After scrubbing the dishes clean, and tidying each and every room was done there was nothing left to do but sit and wait.

1:53pm

And wait.

4:27pm

And wait.

7:49pm

The sun began to set and evening settled in leaving her stir-crazy and going mad with the not knowing. She texted Sam more times than maybe she should have, and made one too many calls but after a full twenty-four hours without contact a very real fear and panic set in prompting her to dial every phone Dean had.

“God damnit…” She hissed, after the third call on Dean’s fifth phone directed her to voicemail.

“Leave your name, number and nightmare after the beep.”

“Dean, I’ve called every phone you have. Where are you guys? Call me back.” Y/n demanded, her tone curt and impatient. Hanging up she threw her phone into the armchair across from her. “It’ll be a milk run.” She mocked with a grimace, minutes away from taking one of the cars in the garage and driving to Lewellen herself.

10:05pm

Just as her nerve peaked and she couldn’t resign herself to sitting alone in that fucking bunker with those dusty books for another single minute, or fold another fucking plaid shirt the sweet, sweet sound of that heavy metal door tore through the anxiety. But what paraded through the door, however, was not comforting in the slightest.

Both of them stumbled in and down the stairs battered, bruised and bloody.

“Oh my god…” The words tumbled out of her mouth as she dropped the basket of laundry rushing to meet them as they hit the bottom of the staircase. Without thought she threw her arms around their necks pulling them in a tight embrace, the days-old stubble on their faces scratchy against her own but also the most comforting thing in the world. Both of them groaned simultaneously, muscles aching with fresh damage but neither of them willing to break free from Y/n’s grip just yet, settling into her hold because they’d needed it as much as she did.

When she finally let them loose and pulled away they were expecting a flash of brilliant smile but were instead met with a bittler glower and a sharp shove of her palms to their chests.

“Never do that to me again!” Y/n commanded, both of them wincing and stumbling back with a regretful nod. “Answer your phones next time! I didn’t know if you were hurt, or in trouble, or- or dead!”

“I mean, we came close, but we’re still kickin’.” Dean replied with an uncomfortable grin, rolling his shoulder trying to tweak it back into place.

“I’m sorry Y/n, we didn’t mean to freak you out. The job just got complicated, and then plans went south quickly. I should have called from the road.” Sam apologized, sincerity writ on his sweet face. The dots of blood flecked across his face and the way he held his ribs made her forgive him in an instant, but she wasn’t done being sour about their radio silence just yet. She huffed folding her arms across her chest in frustration, both at them and at the fact that she couldn’t stay mad at either of them for long, particularly when they looked like they’d gone twelve rounds with a block of cement. Dean’s eyes shifted around curiously landing on one of the tables with piles of their clothes sorted by color, size, and folded with precise crisp lines.

“...Did you do laundry?” He asked with an amused grin.

“I had nothing else to do!” She argued before turning on heel and stomping away, yanking the basket of her own unfolded clothing from the table as she did. The brothers shrugged, not bothering to question, just happy to have clean clothes to come home to.

Sam snagged a shirt and a pair of jeans from her neat piles and followed after her back to their room. Snaking an arm around her shoulders he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, staying until she settled into his hold.

“Thank you, for the laundry, and for hanging tight. I know we probably scared the hell out of you.” He said, his voice low, and sweet and in a tone that he only used with her. Y/n gave his fingers a light squeeze before turning to face him and wrap her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest only to recoil with a wide eyed look of disgust.

“Sam…I am so glad you’re back, but... you smell like blood, gunpowder and wet dog.”

“What you don’t like it?” He teased pulling her tighter his grin creating those dimples in his cheek she missed so much. She struggled to pull away with a laugh, shoving him back playfully.

“No! Ew!” She yelped craning her neck as far away from him as she could until he had her nearly bent in half backwards, long strands of brunet hair tickling her throat as he nipped at her neck. “Oh my god, ugh- Sam it’s in your hair!”

“Aww, c’mon! Close the door if you’re gonna be gross.” Dean chastised his face scrunched up, looking like he was ready to gag.

“Look somewhere else then.” Sam snarked as he stood upright, bringing her back up with him.

“My room is literally this way, and I can’t get to it without passing this door, which you should keep closed out of respect for those who also live here!” Dean demanded before giving them another look of revulsion and continuing down the hall. Sam let out a soft laugh before turning his attention back to Y/n who picked a chunk of hair attached to something fleshy off of his shirt, her face twisted and he let out a genuine laugh, wincing and clutching his ribs as he did. The look of repulsion dropped to that of concern, she reached out placing a gentle hand to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against her palm.

“Sam? You okay?”

“Yeah.” He answered, a little too quickly, telling her that he was- in fact- not. He was quick to recover and shook it off with another smile, slipping his large palm along her cheek and pulling her in to place another kiss at her temple. “I’m alright sweetheart, nothing I can’t handle.”

Y/n nodded reluctantly as she plopped herself on the edge of the bed, not willing to push it, if he was really hurting he’d let her know, maybe not outright but in other ways. Sam dropped his clean clothes in her lap to unbutton and shed his filthy ones.

Maybe there would be a day where she wasn’t completely enchanted by him, but it certainly wasn’t then. She could watch him move forever, miles of golden sun-kissed skin stretched over taut muscle, a jawline so sharp it could cut glass, long graceful lines leading along the column of his throat to that hollow at it’s base that she liked to stare at. The thin grey undershirt he was wearing came off and it never ceased to catch her breath in her throat at the sight of soft chest hair over a firm chest and a thin trail of hair leading down his flat stomach to the waistband of his jeans slung low on his hips. She could have stared at him dreamy eyed for days, and had fully intended to until he turned to face her and she caught sight of the large bruise covering a good portion of the left side of his rib cage, black and purple and several other colors of the rainbow.

Sam wasn’t one to be the center of attention, but he liked it when she watched him, she made him feel wanted and desired, powerful and strong. He liked giving her a little bit of a show, but it was impossible not to notice the dramatic and immediate shift in her demeanor, dreamy heart eyes widening in shock and her jaw going slack.

“What the hell happened to you?” She stood from the bed closing the space between them with quick strides, her fingertips brushing carefully over the damage creating goose flesh where she touched.

“Like I said, plans went south.” He mumbled taking her fingertips and squeezing them gently wanting nothing more than to wash away the concern on her pretty face.

“Uh- yeah Sam, I’d say so. Any of them broken?” When she asked this time her voice was softer, sweeter and full of worry. Cupping her face in his hands, tearing her gaze from the ugly mark, he pressed a gentle kiss to her lips savoring the taste of her and drinking her in like a fine wine

“Maybe, not sure. But give me a few days and I’ll be as good as new.” Sam promised, she nodded but didn’t believe him. She’d hover around like a mother hen, trying to do little things to make it easier on him, she’d bring him offerings of food and fresh cups of coffee when he’d run low so he wouldn’t have to get up to refill it himself. If he mentioned a title of a book she’d be out of her seat to get it before he had a chance to finish a thought. She’d be gentle with him and tender because even if he wouldn’t say it she knew he was in pain. When the worry hadn’t budged from her face he let out a soft laugh and kissed her again. “I’m fine, Y/n. I promise. I’m gonna get a shower, and then I’ll make up for not returning your calls.”

“Actually,” she took his wrists in her delicate hands, his brow furrowing in curiosity. “I have a better idea.”

“Really?” He snarked, as she filled the deep tub with hot water. “I didn’t even know we had a bath tub.”

“Well obviously you spend too much time in that library and not enough time exploring the rest of this place. Welcome to the master suite.” She sassed back and outstretched her arms curling her fingers into the belt loops of his jeans pulling him closer, he was happy to oblige. “You work too hard. When’s the last time you relaxed?”

“It’s been a while.” He breathed, more focused on watching her fingers undo the fly of his jeans peering up at him with those eyes that drove him wild. Eyes that looked at him like he was the only man in the world, eyes that could bring him to his knees, that he could drown in. Hooking her fingers into his belt loops again she tugged his jeans down his thighs and bit into her lower lip, eyes trailing down his stomach. The anticipation of her touching him was enough to get his blood pumping. It was the way her eyelashes curled over half-lidded bedroom eyes, the curve of her lips and that mischievous smile that lingered on them letting him know she knew exactly what she was doing. He kicked his jeans from around his ankles somewhere in a heap on the floor and curled his fingers around the underside of her chin as hers snaked into the waistband of his Saxx boxers where he was already half hard and expecting. Y/n clicked her tongue at him with an admonishing shake her head, having something else in mind.

“Don’t get any ideas yet.” She nodded her head to the inviting water, but her voice was low and sultry and teasing as she pulled his boxers down his legs.

Without question he followed her orders and sunk into the hot water with a sigh, the heat lapping at sore, overworked muscle, and tender bruises. He settled in and watched her wet a washcloth with soap and water, and began dabbing away blood and filth from his face, and neck, gently cleaning fresh cuts and scrapes.

“So, you gonna tell me what happened on your milk run?”

“There was a pack, we had only suspected one, and they got the drop on us.” Sam answered, reaching out of the water to run his thumb over her cheek. “Y’know, I’m a big boy Y/n, I can handle bathing on my own.”

Rolling her eyes with a smile she pressed a quick kiss into the palm of his hand. “Will you just shut up and let me take care of you for once?”

He let out a laugh, hands in the air in surrender, knowing better than to argue. If it made her happy he wouldn’t complain. Usually it was whiskey sterile wounds and dental floss stitches, a quick shower and back to the grindstone. But she was asking him to slow down, to let her care for him in the way he deserved to be cared for all the time. It didn’t always have to be gritty and rushed.

“I missed you.” She said, blotting away blood splattered at his temple. He already knew, but it always set his mind at ease to hear it.

Coming home to Y/n after a long and difficult hunt was one of his favorite things. He didn’t enjoy the near death experiences, but there was nothing quite like death to put life into perspective. When he’d come home to find her there, worried and anticipating his return, greeting him with passionate kisses, warm embraces, and a needing want for him… he could think of nothing better. Those times before and after a hunt always seemed more loving, not knowing if either of them would make it back, and then celebrating their return. But this was was more intimate than those moments between the sheets. She wanted to attend to him, and he wouldn’t deny her what she wanted. How could he when she looked at him like that.

“Missed you too.”

“Okay, Scoot up.” She commanded tugging her thin t-shirt over her head.

Sam sucked in a breath as she slipped out of her clothes, casting them carelessly to the floor, bare breasted and beautiful. Breathtaking, like seeing color for the first time, marveling every curve, and scar and flaw her body had to offer. He reached for her, running a hot, heavy hand up the backside of her thigh where she gripped his hand with hers, and stepped into the water as he moved forward to make room for her. It wasn’t a very large tub, but she slipped comfortably into the space behind him, tucking her legs along the length of his spine and gently pulled his shoulders backwards until his head rest in the divot between her knees. Sam let his eyes fall shut when she soaked his hair and massaged shampoo into his scalp, relishing in the pressure of her fingertips and the gentle scrape of her nails as she combed through his hair.

“You’re going to make me fall asleep.” He murmured allowing himself to relax and just enjoy the feel of her loving him.

Y/n cupped water into his hair washing out the suds and grime that he’d collected in his fight, her lips pressing softly to his forehead before dropping her knees to either side of his waist and pulling him backwards flush against her chest. Laying his head against her shoulder she wrapped her arms around his neck, her hands dipping below the surface of the water, fingers threading through the soft hair on his chest. He could have stayed there forever, wrapped in her with her lips pressed softly against his temple as he traced words he wouldn’t say out loud into the silky skin of her arms.

There was no telling how long he stayed like that, not wanting move lest he break the spell. Endlessly wanting to feel her lips lay soft kisses along the side of his face, down the length of his neck and across the expanse of his shoulder, over any bare skin within her reach. Reaching up he slipped fingers through the hair at the back of her head pulling her to him to capture her lips with his own, lingering there to burn the memory in his brain.

“Thank you.” He hushed against her mouth, feeling the smile spread across her face.

“Of course, I have to make sure my man stays in one piece. I need you here with me for a long time Sam Winchester.”

“As long as you’ll have me.”

“Always?” Y/n suggested.

“Always.” Sam agreed.

The water cooled until the only heat was that which was shared between their bodies, cuing them to finally, and reluctantly get out of the tub. Wrapped in thick, fluffy towels they walked hand in hand back to their room, peeking around corners and down the hallways for Dean. Sneaking around like teenagers trying not to get caught, tip toeing and silent as they slipped into their room, locking the door behind them.

The moment the door closed Sam gathered her small frame him his arms, burying his nose in the crook of her neck climbing up with a trail of kisses to graze teeth over her pulse, tugging away her towel. Y/n pulled away with a smile, taking his hand she lead him to the bed, and with a pointed finger commanded him to sit. He did as he was told sitting on the edge of he mattress, his hands clasping over the curve of her hips to draw her to him. Standing between his thighs she combed through his soft hair, brushing it from his face and fluffing it with her fingers. Damp strands fell along angular cheekbones, his hazel eyes studying her as she curled a long brunet strand around her finger.

Cupping her face in his hands he brought her in to plant a tender kiss on her lips, pressing his forehead to hers staying there until she pressed back, deepening the kiss in a way that could move mountains. He kissed her again and again, desperate and needy, and aroused, wanting more, wanting to show her just how much he’d missed her. Fingers fell from his hair brushing lightly over the skin of his neck and collar, skin prickling from her electric touch. Her lips followed the trail nipping and sucking as she slowly sunk to her knees, kissing her way over his broad chest and down the flat of his stomach. Her hand splayed over the ugly multi-coloured bruising on his rib-cage, ghosting over the marred and raw flesh as if she could draw out the pain and take it into herself. He traced the curve of her lip with the pad of his thumb, drawing in a ragged breath as she tugged open the towel sitting low on his hips.

Her fingertips slipped feather-light over the velvety smoothness of his cock full and erect, driving a shiver up his spine ash she wrapped a hand around the base gripping tight enough to let him know that she was in control. Bringing the tip of her tongue to the head she swirled wet, worshiping circles in a pace so slow it was agonizing, leaving him anxious to sink into the welcoming heat of her mouth. Drawing him between swollen pink lips she sucked him down relishing the hot heaviness of him on her tongue. He was already dripping and she greedily lapped up the salty taste of him, her hand stroking down the impressive length of his cock the other guiding him down her throat matching with the slow bob of her head.

His hips rolled wanting to snap forward, wanting to buck into her mouth to see just how far down she could take him, how far he could stretch her, but he was hesitant, aware that she held the power tonight. A grin tugged at the corner of her mouth, purely enjoying his neediness for more and the erotic sounds falling from his parted lips, wanting to tease him to see how mad she could drive him before he lost self-control and fucked her throat as hard as he wanted to. Her tongue explored and teased the tip before sliding her lips down the shaft sucking him in deeper.

“Uhhnn- fuck…” He let out a pleasured groan, his fingers knotting tightly into the hair at the back of her head as she swallowed the length of him down to the base; nose pressed into his soft, damp curls, nearly gagging at the sheer size of him, pulling away only to breathe again. Flicking her tongue over his swollen tip she worked him deliberately, licking long delicious stripes along the underside of his hardness.

A thin sheen of sweat formed, glistening over miles of rolling, hard muscle. His chin tipped back and eyes fell shut succumbing to the exquisite suction of her wet warmth. Her hands moved to his hips relinquishing some control back to him as she took him down to the hilt again. His grip tight in her hair pulling her as far in as she could take letting her draw back only when he was satisfyingly buried down the back of her throat and a strangled whimper came from her. She inhaled sharply and his hips pumped forward fervently, chest heaving with needy panting breaths as he fucked into her mouth.

“Hmm…god, feel so good.” He hummed a low growl rumbling from the center of his chest, his hips stuttering with the smoldering pressure building as she pushed him closer and closer to his edge. “Y/n… fuck.”

She pulled away letting him break free of the earth-quaking suction of her mouth, leaving a wet kiss on his sensitive head before standing between his legs. His hands fell from her hair to wrap around her splaying over the silky skin of her back, and gripping her ass bringing her in to bury his nose between her collar bones as she slid into his lap, straddling his cock, nestled at the entrance of her aching slit. Tangling her fingers in his still damp hair she tugged gently craning his head backwards and collapsed her lips over the long column of his throat sinking her teeth into the sensitive skin over his pulse, slick and salty with sweat. A hushed gasp escaped his throat breathy and hot against her ear.

His hand followed the curve of her ass, swiping a slow stripe along her dripping slit, sinking between the lips and dipping into her slick. Her head lolled back, inhaling a sharp breath as his finger hooked into her opening.

“Fuck, you’re already so wet.” He murmured in her ear, his free hand trailed from her back around to her stomach gliding a long line up to palm her breast, rolling a hardening bud between his fingers before sucking it between his teeth flicking at her with his tongue sending electric jolts directly to her burning core.

“Sam…” She mewled, her back arching into him as her hips rocked, grinding down against his knuckles.

Pumping his finger into her sex he pressed in another digit and laying a line of kisses between her breasts up her throat to suck at the spot just under her ear. “So tight…”

Pulling her body flush to his he lifted her to center himself at her opening, replacing fingers with the head of his cock, lowering her onto him teasing her entrance. Her hands came to rest along his sharp jawline, her eyes locked on his, rolling his hips he pressed into her sweet throbbing wetness with a euphoric moan. Breath hitched in her throat as he stretched her almost hurting, pausing only when her velvet smooth walls clenched around him allowing her to adjust to his intimidating size until she claimed his lips with hers bottoming out with a sharp thrust.

A desperate cry fell from her lips stars bursting behind her eyes. She rose on her knees rolling her hips changing the angle just enough to feel drag of him all the way down in her toes, slow and loving at first, turning vigorous and hungry. He rocked into her splitting her open, burying himself so blissfully and painfully deep that she could only hold on as she spiraled towards the edge hard and fast.

A groan escaped his lips as he wrapped arms around her waist, flipping her to her back. Gripping her hips to give him that perfect angle she locked her legs around his waist, allowing him to really fuck her into the mattress.

Pounding into her with snapping hips, spearing her cervix hard enough he might have been able to puncture it, hard enough that she wouldn’t be able to walk straight for days. Hard enough that the cries falling from her swollen lips were nothing but unintelligible gasps of pleasure.

“S-Sam! Oh god...!” Her walls fluttered around him, clenching tight as her orgasm broke in hot waves rolling through her entire body, white lights exploding behind her eyes as he fucked her through it. His pace stuttered his release coming with a final thrust and a breathless moan.

Sam all but collapsed on top of her, hot, heavy, and slick with sweat, attempting to catch his breath between tender kisses over her face. He was so heavy he was nearly suffocating, but she didn’t mind, he could crush her completely into the mattress and she wouldn’t complain.

Sam rolled to his back pulling out of her warmth reluctantly and gathered her in his arms along his side tracing words into the bare skin of her shoulder. Running fingers through his hair she locked eyes on his and a smile broke out over his face

“Thanks for taking care of me.” He whispered, saying ‘I love you,’ as she planted a sweet kiss to the dimple in his cheek.

“Always.” She cooed, replying ‘I love you too.’

#Sam Winchester #sam x reader #sam winchester x reader #sam smut #sam winchester smut #sam fic #sam fanfic #sam fanfiction #sam winchester fic #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester fanfic #tlc #jena writes

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thedragontamerying · 6 years

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Have I ever told you guys that I love big man Gladio Lots-of-love Amicitia? Well, I do. Like, a lot. So I had to do a special for him where we can explore more of his character that the game unfortunately never did.

There’s no distinct time for this short, but it does at least happen after Chapter 6.

Tagging @insomniasix @theyearofdiamonddogs @zoeyredbird1 @seal-pai @ffxv-ocs-unite

Legacy

The group had stopped at a haven, deciding to call it a day and set up camp for the night. It had been a long day of fighting, driving, running and general overactivity. Everyone had a collective sigh of relief when they came upon the blue sanctuary glyphs, ready for a moment to relax after a hard day. Not to mention eat; everyone’s stomachs had been growling for a while and the sight of a safe haven had only made their hunger intensify. Ignis was more than happy to rectify this, preparing a meal as soon as their gear was set. By the time they had finished dinner and were settling in the sky had been overtaken by the night. The stars and moon creating a pleasant blue light, a comfort from the creatures of the dark.

Ignis and Artemisia were cleaning up after their meal, cleaning the plates and whatever pots and pans were used as they conversed amongst themselves. Prompto was distracting himself with a round of King’s Knight, though he promised he could keep an eye on the fire at the same time. Ignis had a bucket of water at the ready just in case.

Gladiolus had dragged Noctis off for more training, despite the young man’s protests. Lately, Gladiolus has been very adamant about the new king’s combat training, carrying him off at any moment they had available. Noctis was obviously annoyed about it, usually arguing with his Shield before he caved. At the end of every sparring session though, the two would come back with sweltering bruises and drenched in sweat. Noctis would usually have the worst of it, with not only horrible bruises but with dirt all over his skin and cuts everywhere. Their sparring matches were usually more brutal than anyone else's with the way the two egged each other on, but Gladiolus wasn’t giving Noctis the recovery time that he desperately needed and Noctis’ irritation was turning into obvious frustration.

Which was why it wasn’t so surprising to see Noctis stomping his way back to the campsite, alone and fuming through his gritted teeth. He was covered head to toe in dirt and welts and had pebbles sticking to his skin. Along with his general haphazardly appearance, the bruises that were already forming on top of his healing ones hinted that this session was particularly brutal.

“Whoa buddy, you okay?” Prompto looked at his friend with concern, stepping out his way as Noctis made a beeline for the tent.

“I. Am. Done.” The beaten royal growled. “He’s insane! Before I was joking but now I really do think he’s trying to kill me.”

Ignis stopped his fuming companion before he could disappear into the tent, lightly grazing his injuries. “While I doubt that’s Gladio’s intention, I will admit that this is a bit excessive.” Noctis hissed when Ignis touched a fresh cut on his forehead. “We’ll have to disinfect these.”

Artemisia watched as the others gathered around Noctis, who continued to rightfully complain. She looked down the path that her battered friend had come from, deducting a general idea of where he left Gladiolus. Slipping away quietly from the others, she hopped down from the elevated campsite and walked into the darkened forest. Most daemons stayed as far away as possible from a haven, wanting to avoid the cleansing light of the Oracle, but Artemisia kept on guard as she searched for her companion in the night. Her hand ready to summon her crossbow at any sign of danger.

She jumped slightly when she heard a loud crash, her mind immediately thinking of what monster could be nearby. Only when she recognized the deep, baritone noises from the site did she relax. Weaving around trees, many of them covered in sharp cuts from a heavy blade, she found Gladiolus in a small clearing. A tree had been broken from the trunk and Gladiolus stood before it, his broad shoulders heaving with every deep pant from him. His back was to her but Artemisia could see the shine of sweat going down his body and strands of his hair clinging to his drenched neck.

Gladiolus was always a bit rough with training, never holding back with his opponents -- and, to a degree, that was his way of showing respect -- but even this was beyond his usual extreme. The cuts embedded in the trees were deep, the emotion behind them was obvious. He was angry.

No, he was upset.

Artemisia approached him, making sure to make some noise as to not startle him. Gladiolus stilled himself when he heard her footsteps, looking back with a frustrated stare though it softened slightly when he saw someone recognizable. He noticeably attempted to relax his posture, but the tension underneath was still obvious. He continued training, doing basic movements with his broadsword, disregarding the mess around him. “Noctis is back at camp.” Artemisia stated casually, leaning on a tree with her arms folded over her chest. Gladiolus remained silent, continuing his motions. “He looked pretty roughed up.”

“He wouldn’t if he took training more seriously...”

Artemisia rolled her eyes. Noctis, while spoiled and prone to laziness, didn’t hold back with his combat training. How could he when he had Gladiolus, who would motivate him with his challenging words, or Ignis, who would nag him to the point of action, as his partners. He could try to hide it as much as he wanted but this wasn’t post training frustrations. “He’s been putting more effort into this since Insomnia and you know that.” Artemisia exclaimed sternly. She sighed when he remained stubbornly quiet. “Why are you really upset?”

Gladiolus glanced at her from over his shoulder for a moment before turning away with a huff. “Anyone ever tell you not to analyze people all the time?”

“Anyone ever tell you that you don’t have to be the tough guy all the time?”

Gladiolus grumbled, stabbing his sword into the ground and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Gladio, what’s going on?”

The man just stood there, heavy breathing being the only thing that passed his lips. He kept his back to her, staring ahead to the dark forest around them. He didn’t make any movement, his arms hanging limp to his sides. His breathing started to settle, slowing down to deep sighs before he went completely silent.

For a while the two remained like that, both completely still and quiet. Artemisia let out a small sigh and stared at the ground in frustration. It seemed as though he was determined to stay silent about his woes. “I should have been there…”

Artemisia looked up, surprised that he was finally opening up. Gladiolus sat down on the ground beneath him, groaning as though the weight of his troubles have traveled from his mind to his body. “I should have known what was going to happen. I should have known that the Nifs would attack.” There was some bite in his voice as he spoke about the Empire. “If someone had known ahead of time, then maybe things would be different. Maybe this goddamn war would be over! Then he’d --!” He choked, his shoulders shook as his emotions started to overwhelm him. Artemisia slowly walked over to him, her movements small and quiet, before she stopped just a bit behind him. She resisted the urge to reach for him, to comfort him with a hug or a touch against his back, worried that if she did he would close himself off again in fear of being vulnerable.

As The King’s Shield, he was trained to think none of himself. To steel himself so that others could depend on him. To not let emotion or his own desires to get in the way of his duty. These were things that a Shield doesn’t even consider; no matter the grief or tragedy, no matter the path they find themselves on, a Shield always prioritizes their King. But how could any human live as though they are an unfeeling tool? Every expectation passed on from every generation of Amicitia said that they remained forever strong, to never fall and succumb to weakness no matter the cost. King Regis never held Clarus to such unobtainable requirements, and nor did Noctis for Gladiolus. Being a heartless weapon is impossible for someone with such passion and intelligence as Gladiolus Amicitia.

“...If I had been there to help, then maybe the King would be alive… And so would he.”

That feeling of guilt was one that Artemisia was all too familiar with, including the illusion that something would have changed if they had stayed at the Citadel. The fantasy that they would have made a difference, that they could have saved their loved ones. But she knew the reality; they likely would have died alongside them. That’s why they were sent away. The others knew what was going to happen and they used what time was available to protect them. It was depressing and frustrating, but an understandable decision. It didn’t make the pain any better, though.

Gladiolus sighed, his breath shaky as he focused on his balled hands in his lap. “I wonder if he’s proud.” He chuckled bitterly. “His son on the run with the future king, just barely getting by and having to resort to strangers’ bounties to provide for themselves. Meanwhile, his daughter is alone in a strange place, and lo’n behold, her brother isn’t there for her either.” He was silent for moment before he sharply muttered “What an example of Amicitia greatness…”

Artemisia sat down next to him, looking at him with a hard stare. “You have always made your father proud. That has never been in question.” Gladiolus continued to focus at the ground, avoiding Artemisia’s gaze. Not wanting to push his boundaries during such a vulnerable moment, Artemisia placed her hand on his shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. It was meant as a comforting touch of companionship, but it was also meant to draw his attention away from the voices in his head and to listen to her instead. Artemisia was all too familiar with the daemons that live in one’s mind; she knows how loud they can be.

Gladiolus remained silent but did turn his head slightly, redirecting his focus to the hand on his shoulder. “Clarus’ faith in you was never in doubt. He trusted you with everything that he had because he knew that you would always step up to the challenge, that you would always be someone that others can rely on. You and Iris, you two meant so much to him and he was proud to have you as his successor and, more importantly, his son.” Clarus’ was a lot like Gladiolus in terms of sharing deep feelings with others; a lot of things went unsaid. Despite their relationship seeming more professional than usual for a father and son, it was obvious how much Clarus loved his kids and how happy he was to see them both come so far. He never said it much in words, but the pride he had especially for Gladiolus was immense.

Gladiolus was still quiet, digesting everything that Artemisia had said. He tilted his head more, enough that his eyes were finally able to meet hers. Artemisia could see that some of the bitterness that filled his eyes had disappeared, leaving behind a glint of sadness. As much as she wanted to take that sadness away from him -- from everyone -- she knew that was something that would take time. Something that everyone will have to work on together, and on their own. “It’s not easy, I know, but we’ll find our way around everything.” She reassured, ignoring what her own dark voices were saying. “I know it doesn’t make it better, but you were exactly where you needed to be. You were here protecting Noct. Protecting us. That’s something that your father will always be proud of.” Her hand traveled from his shoulder to the middle of his back, caressing the area in small circular motions. “You should be too.”

Gladiolus’ attention remained on Artemisia for a moment before it slowly traveled back to the ground beneath them, the grass tickling their ankles as it rustled in the wind. He stared down at his hands resting in his lap, his thumbs twirling around each other. They sat there for a moment in silence before Artemisia gave one more pat to his back and stood up. “Come on, we should get back to the others before they start to worry.”

She had started to walk back the way she came before Gladiolus called out. “Hey wait,” Artemisia turned around to look back at him as he stood up. “Follow me to the car. I wanna show you something.”

Artemisia’s eyes wandered, looking off where she could hear the distant noises of creatures lurking about. “Now? Shouldn’t we wait until morning?”

“We’ll be fine. It’s just a quick trip.” He insisted, taking a couple steps in the direction of the Regalia that was parked on the road further out. “It’s something that I think you should see.”

Artemisia hesitated, every survival instinct in her demanding that they go back to the safety of the campsite instead of walking in the dark with only twenty percent of their usual five man group. She gave in though as Gladiolus continued on, jogging after him to catch up.

The two traveled through the forest, avoiding any daemons that may have been in the area. Soon they reached the Regalia -- as Gladiolus said, it was a quick walk. The car sat under a single road lamp, protected from any monsters of the night by the illuminating light. These types of anti-daemon lights were rare outside of Insomnia, and so many of them were used to protect more exposed towns or resting areas on the road. It was a shame that there weren’t more to go around, but at least it was a comfort here.

Gladiolus opened the back door where he usually sits and pulled out a small bag from under the front seat, revealing a plethora of books inside. Artemisia couldn’t help the small smile that formed on her lips at the sight. There were many things that were different between her and the man besides her, but they both shared a love for literature and it was one of the first things outside of Noctis that they bonded over. Artemisia knew that Gladiolus had brought some books to read, but she wasn’t aware that he had this many. She was going to have to see if he’d let her read some while on the road.

He dug through the bag for moment before pulling out a thick covered novel. Artemisia blinked, recognizing the cover immediately. “I found this the other night.” Gladiolus handed her the book. The cover was colored a single hue of maroon with gold embroidery on the spine. In a calligraphy type of font, the title read Asphyxiation. Right under the foreboding title was a simple line drawing of two hands, separated but within reach of each other. One hand was smaller and much more feminine, while the other masculine hand carried a bouquet of flowers that seemed to be wilting. A single petal from the bouquet was drawn falling, leading the reader’s eyes to the author’s name.

“I didn’t know that your dad wrote these kinds of books. I thought he only wrote stories for kids.”

Artemisia’s eyes welled up seeing her father’s name, Dimitrios Thanos. It had felt like an eternity since she had heard his name, even though the event that took him away from her was really not long ago. She blinked back the tears, smiling at the book in her hands. “He actually didn’t start writing children’s books until I was born.” He always went on about how she was his inspiration. “His biggest dream as a writer was to make a big murder mystery series, believe it or not.”

Gladiolus gave a tender smile. “I’m guessing this is one of them?”

Artemisia couldn’t help the small puff of laughter. “No, it’s a romance.” And one of his more cheesy ones, in her opinion. Her father was always a fan of showing off his vocabulary, which usually led to a lot of hyperboles and eccentric titles. “He never admitted it, but I think he enjoyed writing romance the most. He always seemed to have more fun with them.” She leaned against the trunk of the car, opening the hard covered book.

Gladiolus stood next to her, imitating her position against the car as he spoke softly, “What’s it about?”

Artemisia sniffed, feeling her repressed grief starting to surface. “Heh, my dad was such a romantic at heart… I’m pretty sure every romance he wrote was about him and my mom. Though Mom always said that he exaggerated a lot in these stories.” She flipped to the dedication page.

To my best friend and the love of my life, Sotiria. May this be only one chapter in the story that is our life together.

“I-I,” Artemisia choked back the whimper that tried to escape her, quickly wiping away a threatening tear from the corner of her eye. She cleared her throat before continuing. “I think he wrote this when…”

She voice trailed off when she went to the back cover. There, just above the Introduction to the author summary, was a picture of both her mother and father. They were both a bit younger in the picture; her father’s hair was still too short to be tied back in his usual ponytail, and her mother’s face was devoid of all the stress lines by her eyes, but they looked just as happy as she remembered them to be. And in the middle of them, being cradled by both of their supporting and comforting arms, was a small baby with a tuft of dark red hair.

The photographers for these books were always confused when Dad insisted that Mom and I be included in them, but he always got his way. He said that his greatest inspirations had to be given credit with him. Mom would always fuss about how she wasn’t picture perfect, and that would just turn into a overly sweet love fest from the two of them as Dad would convince her to be in the shot. I remember thinking it was kind of annoying when he would put me in the photos… I didn’t want to sit still when I could be doing something more exciting. But Dad would put me on his knee and would tickle me until I faced hurt from laughing so much and then -- Why is it wet all of a sudden?

Her thoughts -- I thought I was talking? -- stopped when Artemisia realized that there were streams of tears escaping from her eyes, trailing down her face and dripping on to the tightly held book. She could feel her hands shaking as they gripped the book so close, as though it would grow wings and fly away.

“Ah!” She took off her glasses and frantically wiped her eyes in an attempt to stop crying. She was suppose to comforting Gladiolus through his mourning; she couldn’t be breaking down like this. “I-I’m sorry, I d-didn’t--”

She was interrupted when she was suddenly engulfed in warmth. She felt Gladiolus’ hand against her shoulder, bringing her closer to him in a small hug. His hold was firm and soothing but gentle enough to move, giving her enough space to move away if she wanted. Artemisia was motionless against his chest, hearing the beat of his heart against her ear, before she felt liquid dripping on top of her head.

“I know,” Gladiolus said, his voice feint and restrained, “I do too.”

His voice broke the dam that held her back. Artemisia relaxed against him as she let her tears pour out, wrapping her arms around Gladiolus and clutching the fabric against his back like a lifeline. She could feel his shirt become damp as she smothered herself against him, her sobbing vibrating against him. He in turn had wrapped his other arm around her and had moved his hand from her shoulder to the back of her head. He rested his forehead against the top of her head, squeezing her closer to him, as though he could guard them from their tragic memories.

This was a sadness that will need work. It is something that each and every one of them will need to come to peace with. In the end, it is something that only the passage of time will help heal and even then it will leave a deep scar. But finding comfort in each other and sharing in that vulnerability may make the healing bearable.

#ffxv fanfic #ffxv oc #ffxv game rewrite #gladiolus x oc #gladiolus amicitia #artemisia thanos

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gp-synergism-blog · 6 years

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Gothic Film in the ‘40s: Doomed Romance and Murderous Melodrama

Posted by: Samm Deighan for Diabolique Magazine

Secret Beyond the Door (1947)

In many respects, the ‘40s were a strange time for horror films. With a few notable exceptions, like Le main du diable (1943) or Dead of Night (1945), the British and European nations avoided the genre thanks to the preoccupation of war. But that wasn’t the case with American cinema, which continued to churn out cheap, escapist fare in droves, ranging from comedies and musicals to horror films. In general though, genre efforts were comic or overtly campy; Universal, the country’s biggest producer of horror films, resorted primarily to sequels, remakes, and monster mash ups during the decade, or ludicrous low budget films centered on half-cocked mad scientists (roles often hoisted on a fading Bela Lugosi).

There are some exceptions: the emergence of grim-toned serial killer thrillers helmed by European emigres like Hitchcock’s Shadow of a Doubt (1943), Ulmer’s Bluebeard(1944), Siodmak’s The Spiral Staircase (1945), or John Brahm’s Hangover Square(1945); the series of expressionistic moody horror film produced by auteur Val Lewton, such as Cat People (1942) and I Walked with a Zombie (1943); and a handful of strange outliers like the eerie She-Wolf of London (1946) or the totally off-the-rails Peter Lorre vehicle, The Beast with Five Fingers (1946).

Thanks to the emergence of film noir and a new emphasis on psychological themes within suspense films, horror’s sibling — arguably even its precursor — the Gothic, was also a prominent cinematic force during the decade. One of the biggest producers of Gothic cinema came from the literary genre’s parent country, England. Initially this was a way to present some horror tropes and darker subject matter at a time when genre films were embargoed by a country at war, but Hollywood was undoubtedly attempting to compete with Britain’s strong trend of Gothic cinema: classic films like Thorold Dickinson’s original Gaslight (1940); a series of brooding Gothic romances starring a homicidal-looking James Mason, like The Night Has Eyes (1942), The Man in Grey(1943), The Seventh Veil (1945), and Fanny by Gaslight (1944); David Lean’s two best films and possibly the greatest Dickens adaptations ever made, Great Expectations(1946) and Oliver Twist (1948); and other excellent, yet forgotten literary adaptations like Uncle Silas (1947) and Queen of Spades (1949).

The American films, which not only responded to their British counterparts but helped shape the Gothic genre in their own right, tended towards three themes in particular (often combining them): doomed romance, dark family inheritances often connected to greed and madness, and the supernatural melodrama. Certainly, these film borrowed horror tropes, like the fear of the dark, nightmares, haunted houses, thick cobwebs, and fog-drenched cemeteries. The home was often set as the central location, a site of both domesticity and terror — speaking to the genre’s overall themes of social order, repressed sexuality, and death — and this location was of course of equal importance to horror films and the “woman’s film” of the ‘40s and ‘50s. Like the latter, these Gothic films often featured female protagonists and plots that revolved around a troubled romantic relationship or domestic turmoil.

Wuthering Heights (1939)

Two of the earliest examples, and certainly two films that kicked off the wave of Gothic romance films in America, are also two of the genre’s most enduring classics: William Wyler’s Wuthering Heights (1939) and Hitchcock’s Rebecca (1940). Based on Emily Brontë’s novel of the same name (one of my favorites), Wyler and celebrated screenwriter Ben Hecht (with script input from director and writer John Huston) transformed Wuthering Heights from a tale of multigenerational doom and bitterness set on the unforgiving moors into a more streamlined romantic tragedy about the love affair between Cathy (Merle Oberon) and Heathcliffe (Laurence Olivier) that completely removes the conclusion that focuses on their children. In the film, the couple are effectively separated by social constraints, poverty, a harsh upbringing, and the fact that Cathy is forced to choose between her wild, adopted brother Heathcliffe and her debonair neighbor, Edgar Linton (David Niven).

Wuthering Heights is actually less Gothic than the films it inspired, primarily because of the fact that Hollywood neutered many of Brontë’s themes. In The History of British Literature on Film, 1895-2015, Greg Semenza and Bob Hasenfratz wrote, “Hecht and Wyler together manage to transfer the narrative from its original literary genre (Gothic romance) and embed it in a film genre (the Hollywood romance, which would evolve into the so-called ‘women’s films’ of the 1940s)… [To accomplish this,] Hecht and Wyler needed to remove or tone down elements of the macabre, the novel’s suggestions of necrophilia in chapter 29, and its portrayal of Heathcliffe as a kind of Miltonic Satan” (185).

This results in sort of watered down versions of Cathy — who is selfish and cruel as a general rule in the novel — and, in particular, Heathcliffe, whose brutish behavior includes physical violence, spousal abuse, and a drawn out, well-plotted revenge that becomes his sole reason for living. It is thus in a somewhat different — and arguably both more terrifying and more romantic — context that the novel’s Heathcliffe declares to a dying Cathy, “Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living. You said I killed you–haunt me then. The murdered do haunt their murderers. I believe–I know that ghosts have wandered the earth. Be with me always–take any form–drive me mad. Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! It is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!” (145).

Despite Hollywood’s intervention, the novel’s Gothic flavor was not scrubbed entirely and Wuthering Heights still includes themes of ghosts, haunting, and just the faintest touch of damnation, though it ends with a spectral reunion for Cathy and Heathcliffe, whose spirits set off together across the snow-covered moors. These elements of a studio meddling with a film’s source novel, doomed romance, and supernatural tones also appeared in the following year’s Rebecca, possibly the single most influential Gothic film from the period. This was actually Hitchcock’s first film on American shores after his emigration due to WWII, and his first major battle with a producer in the form of David O. Selznick.

Rebecca (1940)

Based on Daphne du Maurier’s novel of the same name, Rebecca marks the return of Laurence Olivier as brooding romantic hero Maxim de Winter, the love interest of an innocent young woman (Joan Fontaine) traveling through Europe as a paid companion. She and de Winter meet, fall in love, and are quickly married, though things take a dark turn when they move to his ancestral home in England, Manderlay, which is everywhere marked with the overwhelming presence of his former wife, Rebecca. The hostile housekeeper (Judith Anderson) is still obviously obsessed with her former mistress, Maxim begins to act strangely and has a few violent outbursts, and the new Mrs. de Winter begins to suspect that Rebecca’s death was the result of a homicidal act…

The wanton or mad wife was a feature not only of Rebecca, but of earlier Gothic fiction from Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre to “The Yellow Wallpaper.” In the same way that Cathy of Wuthering Heights is an example of the feminine resistance to a claustrophobic social structure, Rebecca is a similar figure, made monstrous by her refusal to conform. The dark secret that Maxim’s new wife learns is that Rebecca was privately promiscuous, agreeing only to appear to be the perfect wife in public after de Winter already married her. She pretends she is pregnant with another man’s child and tries to goad her husband into murdering her, seemingly out of sheer spite, but it is revealed that she was dying of cancer.

A surprisingly faithful adaptation of the novel, Rebecca presents the titular character’s death as a suicide, rather than a murder, thanks to the Production Code’s insistence that murderers had to be punished, contrary to the film’s apparent happy ending, and restricted the (now somewhat obvious) housekeeper’s lesbian infatuation for Rebecca. Despite these restrictions, Hitchcock managed to introduce some of the bold, controversial themes that would carry him through films like Marnie (1964). For Criterion, Robin Wood wrote, “it is in Rebecca that his unifying theme receives its first definitive statement: the masculinist drive to dominate, control, and (if necessary) punish women; the corresponding dread of powerful women, and especially of women who assert their sexual freedom, for what, above all, the male (in his position of dominant vulnerability, or vulnerable dominance) cannot tolerate is the sense that another male might be “better” than he was. Rebecca is killed because she defies the patriarchal order, the prohibition of infidelity.”

Wood also got to the crux of many of these early Gothic films (and the Romantic/romantic novels that inspired them) when he wrote, “The antagonism toward Maxim we feel today (in the aftermath of the Women’s Movement) is due at least in part to the casting of Olivier; without that antagonism something of the film’s continuing force and fascination would be weakened.” Heathcliffe and de Winter are similarly contradictory figures: romantic, but also repulsive, objects of love and fear in equal measures, they mirror the character type popularized in England by a young, brooding James Mason — an antagonistic, almost villainous (and sometimes actually so) male romantic lead — that would appear in a number of other titles throughout the decade.

Rebecca (1940)

In “‘At Last I Can Tell It to Someone!’: Feminine Point of View and Subjectivity in the Gothic Romance Film of the 1940s” for Cinema Journal, Diane Waldman wrote, “The plots of films like Rebecca, Suspicion, Gaslight, and their lesser-known counterparts like Undercurrent and Sleep My Love fall under the rubric of the Gothic designation: a young inexperienced woman meets a handsome older man to whom she is alternately attracted and repelled. After a whirlwind courtship (72 hours in Lang’s Secret Beyond the Door, two weeks is more typical), she marries him. After returning to the ancestral mansion of one of the pair, the heroine experiences a series of bizarre and uncanny incidents, open to ambiguous interpretation, revolving around the question of whether or not the Gothic male really loves her. She begins to suspect that he may be a murderer” (29-30).

As Waldman suggests, there are many films from the decade that fit into this type: notable examples include Hitchcock’s Suspicion (1941), where Joan Fontaine again stars as an innocent, wealthy young woman who marries an unscrupulous gambler (Cary Grant) who may be trying to kill her for her fortune; Robert Stevenson’s Jane Eyre (1943) yet again starred Fontaine as the innocent titular governess, who falls in love with her gloomy, yet charismatic employer, Mr. Rochester (Orson Welles); George Cukor’s remake of Gaslight (1944) starred Ingrid Bergman as a young singer driven slowly insane by her seemingly charming husband (Charles Boyer), who is only out to conceal a past crime; and so on.

Another interesting, somewhat unusual interpretations of this subgenre is Experiment Perilous (1944), helmed by a director also responsible for key film noir and horror titles such as Out of the Past, Cat People, and Curse of the Demon: Jacques Tourneur. Based on a novel by Margaret Carpenter and set in turn of the century New York, Experiment Perilous is a cross between Gothic melodrama and film noir and expands upon the loose plot of Gaslight, where a controlling husband (here played by Paul Lukas) is trying to drive his younger wife (the gorgeous Hedy Lamarr) insane. The film bucks the Gothic tradition of the ‘40s in the sense that the wife, Allida, is not the protagonist, but rather it is a psychiatrist, Dr. Bailey (George Brent). He encounters the couple because he befriended the husband’s sister (Olive Blakeney) on a train and when she passes away, he goes to pay his respects. While there, he he falls in love with Allida and refuses to believe her husband’s assertions that she is insane and must be kept prisoner in their home.

In some ways evocative of Hitchcock (a fateful train ride, a psychiatrist who falls in love with a patient and refuses to believe he or she is insane), Experiment Perilous is a neglected, curious film, and it’s interesting to imagine what it would have been if Cary Grant starred, as intended. It does mimic the elements of female paranoia found in films like Rebecca and Gaslight, in the sense that Allida believes she has a mysterious admirer and, as with the later Secret Beyond the Door, she’s tormented by the presence of a disturbed child; though Lamarr never plays to the level of hysteria usually found in this type of role and her performance is both understated and underrated.

Experiment Perilous (1944)

Tourneur was an expert at playing with moral ambiguities, a quality certainly expressed in Experiment Perilous, and the decision to follow the psychiatrist, rather than the wife, makes this a compelling mystery. Like Laura, The Woman in the Window, Vertigo, and other films, the mesmerizing portrait of a beautiful woman is responsible for the protagonist becoming morally compromised, and for most of the running time it’s not quite clear if Bailey is acting from a rational, medical premise, or a wholly irrational one motivated by sexual desire. Rife with strange diary entries, disturbing letters, stories of madness, death, and psychological decay, and a torrid family history are at the heart of the delightfully titled Experiment Perilous. Like many films in the genre, it concludes with a spectacular sequence where the house itself is in a state of chaos, the most striking symbol of which is a series of exploding fish tanks.

But arguably the most Gothic of all these films — and certainly my favorite — is Fritz Lang’s The Secret Beyond the Door (1947). On an adventure in Mexico, Celia (Joan Bennett), a young heiress, meets Mark Lamphere (Michael Redgrave), a dashing architect. They have a whirlwind romance before marrying, but on their honeymoon, Mark is frustrated by Celia’s locked bedroom door and takes off in the middle of the night, allegedly for business. Things worsen when they move to his mansion in New England, where she is horrified to learn that she is his second wife, his first died mysteriously, and he has a very strange family, including an odd secretary who covers her face with a scarf after it was disfigured in a fire; he also has serious financial problems. During a welcoming party, Mark shows their friends his hobby, personally designed rooms in the house that mimic the settings of famous murders. Repulsed, Celia also learns that there is one locked room that Mark keeps secret. As his behavior becomes increasingly cold and disturbed she comes to fear that he killed the first Mrs. Lamphere and is planning to kill her, too.

A blend of “Bluebeard,” Rebecca, and Jane Eyre, Secret Beyond the Door is quite an odd film. Though it relies on some frustrating Freudian plot devices and has a number of script issues, there is something truly magical and eerie about it and it deserves as far more elevated reputation. Though this falls in with the “woman’s films” popular at the time, Bennett’s Celia is far removed from the sort of innocent, earnest, and vulnerable characters played by Fontaine. Lang, and his one-time protege, screenwriter Silvia Richards, acknowledge that she has flaws of her own, as well as the strength, perseverance, and sheer sexual desire to pursue Mark, despite his potential psychosis.

This was Joan Bennett’s fourth film with Fritz Lang – after titles like Man Hunt (1941), The Woman in the Window (1944), and Scarlet Street (1945) — and it was to be her last with the director. While her earlier characters were prostitutes, gold diggers, or arch-manipulators, Celia is more complex; she is essentially a spoiled heiress and socialite bored with her life of pleasure and looking to settle down, but used to getting her own way and not conforming to the needs of any particular man. (Gloria Grahame would go on to play slightly similar characters for Lang in films like The Big Heat and Human Desire.) In one of Celia’s introductory scenes, she’s witness to a deadly knife fight in a Mexican market. Instead of running in terror, she is clearly invigorated, if not openly aroused by the scene, despite the fact that a stray knife lands mere inches from her.

Secret Beyond the Door (1947)

Like some of Lang’s other films with Bennett, much of this film is spent in or near beds and the bedroom. The hidden bedroom also provides a rich symbolic subtext, one tied in to Mark’s murder-themed rooms, the titular secret room (where his first wife died), and the burning of the house at the film’s conclusion. Due to the involvement of the Production Code, sex is only implied, but modern audiences may miss this. It is at least relatively clear that Mark and Celia’s powerful attraction is a blend of sex and violence, affection and neurosis. As with Rebecca and Jane Eyre, it is implied that the fire — the act of burning down the house and the memory of the former love (or in Jane Eyre’scase, the actual woman) — has cleansing properties that restore Mark to sanity. It is revealed that though he did not commit an actual murder, the guilt of his first wife’s death, brought on by a broken heart, has driven him to madness and obsession.

This really is a marvelous film, thanks Lang’s return to German expressionism blended with Gothic literary themes. There is some absolutely lovely cinematography from Stanley Cortez that prefigured his similar work on Charles Laughton’s The Night of the Hunter. In particular, a woodland set – where Celia runs when she thinks Mark is going to murder her – is breathtaking, eerie, and nightmarish, and puts a marked emphasis on the fairy-tale influence. But the house is where the film really shines with lighting sources often reduced to candlelight, reflections in ornate mirrors, or the beam of a single flashlight. The camera absolutely worships Bennett, who is framed by long, dark hallways, foreboding corridors, and that staple of film noir, the winding staircase.

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thedefinitionofbts · 6 years

Text

Error

Pairings: Jeon Jungkook x Reader

Genre: Scifi, Angst, Robot Au

Words: 4.5K

Description: As requested by anon: “have u seen Vixx Error MV?? can i request a jungkook robot au based on the MV?? something along the storyline about after ur tragic death he couldnt live on without you so he made a robot that looks exactly like you and programmed all their memories they had together into the robot. but the police (well more those ppl in black from the MV lol) finds out about it and take actions. and so now you and her are trying to escape together.”

A/N: First off, I’m just going to say I love Vixx’s Error, and I’ve been wanting to write a robot au for a long time coming. I hope you don’t mind that I added my own little twist to this. Thank you for the request!

Jungkook stares at the humanoid robot positioned in front of him, tracing along every edge and curvature of the android that is an exact replica of the woman he has only able to see in his dreams since the day she left this world. Her eyes remained delicately closed, body rigid and lifeless, but her hair flowed naturally down towards her shoulders, and it reminds him of the exact way it used to flutter in the ocean breeze, the exact way it used to embody the familiar scent of her. He continues to gaze at the rendering machine, eyes flickering with ambiguity and swelling with imminent tears threatening to spill over. He is unsure of himself; uncertain of what he has done, and yet he cannot stop his heart from continuing to call out for someone his mind knows is already gone.

There is a kind of stillness in the room that makes Jungkook wholly hesitate one last time. His head throbs as the tiny voice of reason makes an attempt to crawl forward and awaken him, but he squeezes his skull with his hands, shutting it away before it can convince him to stop while he still can. Part of him knows this is not the answer, but a larger portion of him doesn’t care because he’s too close to stop now. He holds his breath, thrashing in his self-created penitentiary, shaking violently and coercing the voice to go away, and when it finally does, he’s ready to proceed without any more disruptions.

An eerie silence looms as the approaching finale instigates the slow churning rise of apprehension in his chest. He inhales and exhales, gradually calming his stiffened body and proceeds to finish off what he started.

After months of burying himself in the lab--designing, experimenting, and building—driven purely by his grief stricken heart and the determination of a madman, he was finally one step away from completion.

This was it.

He was one step away from bringing you back.

…

9 Months Ago

Whoever came up with the five stage of loss was spewing bullshit.

Jungkook has been stuck in limbo, slipping between the stratums of earth and hell for weeks, and the fact that his therapist kept telling him that time will heal the deepest of wounds was infuriating and maddening because Jungkook doesn’t buy any of it, especially not when he’s fully convinced that he has the ability to bring you back.

“Jungkook, are you sure about this? You understand that it’s illegal right?”

“No one has to find out. You won’t tell the authorities, will you?” Jungkook looks at him intently, eyes burning and desperate, nonverbally begging the older male to keep this secret, to hide it between the two of them for as long as need be. Of all the people in this world, Jungkook trusted Yoongi, and he knew for a fact that Yoongi would never rat him out.

Yoongi looks at the younger male with pitiful eyes and has no choice but to let out a defeated sigh. He knows Jungkook won’t listen to him anyways because any sort of reasoning just ends up going through one ear and out the other. Jungkook is too stubborn, too hopelessly in love with his dead girlfriend to think straight, to accept any kind of consolation offered in hopes of getting him to move on with his life because he still thinks it’s his fault.

That accident was a tragedy, and no one could’ve predicted that semi-truck would collide with his SUV that day. But he still chooses to imprison himself in guilt because he insists he could’ve prevented the unavoidable. And Yoongi can’t fucking stand to see him in pain, he can’t bear to see the kid continue to live in perpetual torment brought on by something that he had no control over, but the whole idea of creating a conscious robot did not sit well with the older male.

Yoongi looks back up at Jungkook, who was still waiting for an affirmative response. At least Jungkook wasn’t crying until his tears ran dry or showing up with sunken cheeks and bloodshot eyes from not being able to eat or sleep for days. He was maybe doing a tad bit better after the tragedy that happened three months ago, and although Yoongi doesn’t know if it’s because of this crazy idea or if he’s actually just moving to the next emotional stage of loss, he figures it’s much better to be trusted by the younger male than to be seen as an enemy so that way he can at least be of aid if worse comes to worst.

“No. I won’t tell anyone.” Yoongi murmurs, sighing once more.

Jungkook’s lips curve into the faintest of smiles, something Yoongi hasn’t seen the lights of in a long time. “Thanks.”

And then he’s gone, disappearing for the next six months.

…

Memory download complete.

Your eyes gently flutter open, squinting as your system adjusted to the artificial lights streaming down from the ceiling. Lost in a confused daze, you take a moment to stabilize, scanning the surrounding area to gain some sort of a footing, so at least you could process how to proceed from here. You don’t really feel anything unbearable, nothing you can’t handle with a bit of buffering from your hard-wired code, that is, until you see him.

Jeon Jungkook

The flood of emotions that washes over you the moment you recognize him instantly is overwhelming, to the point where it’s almost too overpowering to fully comprehend, too much for your system to logically handle, which shouldn’t actually be possible but somehow is. He’s looking at you with anticipation, eyes glittering with the tears he’s trying so hard to hold in.

“Jungkook” You voice, stepping forward and throwing yourself into his arms.

He welcomes your embrace immediately, enveloping you in his arms as securely as he can. Caressing your head as you bury your face into the crook of his neck, like he was afraid you would vanish if he didn’t hold you tightly enough. And it feels familiar; the same way it has felt when he hugged you on multiple occasions in the past, only now, it’s even more desperate, and he’s even more unwilling to let go.

“Y/N” He breathes out in relief and rapture as his tears finally tumble over, streaming down his cheeks and onto your exposed shoulders, and you can feel their warmth, the anguish they carry with them, and you can sense his pain in the most undiluted way. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you too, Jungkook.” You whisper back despite not being able to understand the precise reason for your response, but seeing him quelled a deeply rooted longing that you are just now becoming hyper aware of. You can fully grasp the cause for his unbearable yearning, the origin of why every inch of his body was conveying elation at the sight of you. However, simultaneously, you felt that there was something important missing, something you didn’t have the means to obtain the link for or find a way to trace it back to the source data.

“You remember me, right?” He pulls away slowly, holding you by the shoulders and searching within your synthetic eyes for that indisputable glint of recognition, the confirmation that his experiment was a success, and he had indeed brought you back. His features are laced with expectancy, and you can tell he’s grappling with the fear that you don’t remember him, and he failed.

You nod your head deliberately, flashing him an endearing smile. “Of course.”

At the sound of your words, he returns the gesture fondly and exhales deeply. “I can’t believe you’re back.” He breathes out, leading you over to the bench and sitting you down beside him. “How do you feel?”

The question catches you off guard, you don’t know why there’s such an opposing mixture of emotions playing inside of you. “Happy to see you.” You blurt out, despite knowing it was a white lie. It hurts, but for some reason you don’t want to tell him that it does.

He smiles again, and the pain within you subsides momentarily. “Me too.”

“I’m sorry I left” The words come out before you’ve made a prediction about the response they would elicit. You aren’t sure if it will work, but you wanted to get one fact straight right away.

A shadow hovers over his irises, and the aching inside of you swells once more. “It was my fault. I should’ve reacted faster.” He lowers his gaze even more. “I wish it was me instead of you.”

You close your eyes, replaying that moment of seeing the girl drenched in blood, lying unconscious in a totaled vehicle, and you understand. You know that you are supposed to be the girl he is longing to see. “No, Jungkook. It’s not your fault. It was an accident, no one could’ve predicted those events to happen that day. And please stop wishing you could’ve taken my place.”

He takes your hand in his, rubbing the back with his thumb in the way you’ve always loved most. “You’re right.” He agrees. “But it doesn’t matter now, you’re here and that’s all that matters.”

His words do not provide you the unadulterated comfort that he intends. They are sincere, but they’re only pieces of the whole that is still broken, and you know it’s only a band aid covering a wound that has not been disinfected. “You’ve been through too much.” You squeeze his hand firmly, leaning your head against his chest just like the way you used.

“Anything for you.” Jungkook doesn’t pay attention to the strange sensation of persuading himself he’s brought you back from the dead. He’s completely fine with allowing his brain to continue tricking himself into thinking you are no different from the girl he lost in that car accident a year ago.

But you on the other hand, are unable to ignore what you perceive to be a miscalculation.

…

“Do you like it?” Jungkook says, walking you into your new bedroom connected to his lab.

You look around at the spacious replica of the old room you shared with him back before you had died, complete with cream colored walls decorated with paintings and photos of the two of you in your happiest moments, a dresser for both of your clothes, your vanity lined with cosmetics and your favorite stuffed animals, his shelf of action figures and comic books, and finally a king-sized bed with white sheets placed directly in the center. It resembled the bedroom from your memories down to the very last detail, and you can’t ignore the bittersweet taste in your heart as you stood there, staring at the visual evidence of Jungkook’s attempt to restore that which cannot be repaired. “You have a very good memory.” You comment.

He laughs for the first time in 12 months, the sound saturating the room strangely foreign to his own ears, but nevertheless completely genuine. “I scanned it and used 3-D printing technology. Piece of cake.”

You throw him a playful grin. “Boastful now, are we?”

“It’s not bragging if it’s the truth.”

“Never heard of that one.” You cock a brow.

Jungkook scratches the back of his neck, realizing it’s been a year since he’s cracked a joke. “It’s been too long, I’ve lost my touch.”

“Well, let’s bring it back then.” You nudge him in the shoulder, and he responds by reaching over and tickling you until you are both squirming on the floor giggling like the good old days.

When the two of you calm down for your laughing fit, you continue to lie on the floor together as Jungkook takes you in his arms once more. And it’s not that you didn’t enjoy being like this with him more than anything else, but the glaring fault line is there again, and it’s cutting into you like shards of glass gripped in the palms of your hands.

“And to think I almost listened when they told me to let you go.” He tilts his head down to look at you, expression unreadable, but you can sense his grip on that shard of glass, and you know he thinks ignoring the blood oozing out of his hand will make the stinging go away because that’s what your system wants you to think as well.

But it’s a lie because the wound is growing deeper.

“It would’ve been less painful.” You tell him, almost wanting to be more adamant about the statement.

He shakes his head. “I’ll never be able to.” He whispers.

The look in his eyes is exactly how you feel when he voices those words. A mixture of emotions that are indescribable except through the endless stories built by all the memories the two of you have shared, and the reality of having a future of infinite possibilities taken away, stolen abruptly so that you are only left with fading pages of a lost life.

You scoot in closer to him and hug him snugly. Taking in every piece of sensory information you are provided in that intimate position. You are listening to every vibration of his body, the sound of his heartbeat, and his calming whispers, and in that instant you can feel yourself inching that much closer to the missing source despite knowing you’ll never reach it.

…

Over the next few weeks, the error that had made itself known since the moment you opened your eyes for the first time is kept at bay through your interactions with Jungkook. From the moment you wake in the morning until the day comes to its inevitable end, he is with you. He is always with you, and the fact that you would never want to have it any other way, makes you feel selfish because you were fully aware that his love for you is more than you deserve. He’s beautiful just like this world he has gifted you the ability to experience, and everything about the days you are allowed to spend with him leaves you breathless even if those ephemeral emotions are artificial. He’s covering your shared wounds with his undying affection until the surface heals while the infection below is allowed to resume spreading beneath the scars, and even though the pain is reduced to a dull throbbing, it never vanishes completely.

But he does it because he can’t let go of you.

And it’s not that Jungkook was very good at hiding his own pain or deceiving himself into trusting that everything was perfect. It was the fact that he had literally become immune to his actions, unable to focus on treating the problem rather than the symptoms. But you completely understand him because he made you feel like your life with him was authentic, existent, and tangible. In his embrace, you are able to set your worries aside temporarily. While listening to his voice you can’t help but believe in his words. Seeing his smile you are gifted the hope that everything can potentially work out. But it wasn’t long before the superficiality of the life you have forced yourself to consider valid is actually counterfeit, and you can never run away from such a fundamental issue.

“Y/N, I have good news!”

“What is it Jungkook?” You turn around to face him as he wraps you in his arms in excitement.

“I’ve figured out how to turn myself into a cyborg.” He announces in an utterly delighted tone that sends your system directly into panic mode.

“What?!” You pull away from him, shaking your head and trying to register his words. “No, why would you do that?”

His smile drops when he realizes your reaction was not the one he had expected to witness. “So we can be together. Isn’t that great?” He peers at you hopefully, waiting for a different response.

Together. For some reason, the word hits you suddenly like a harsh gust of wind that snaps a thick branch off of a tree because you are reminded in that instant of realization that being with him was not right. It was never right to begin with, and no matter how expertly you try to hide your mistake, it always comes back to bite. It is then that the cause of the missing source finally revealed itself, and it only took one decision from him for you to locate the reason for why all of this felt so wrong.

You were not who he assumes you to be, and you do not belong with him in such circumstances.

“Yes, it is” Your voice is detached as you force yourself to agree with him, but Jungkook is too enthusiastic to notice your change in demeanor to read in between the lines. “When will you start?” You inquire, hiding the true motive behind your words.

“Tomorrow” He grins, eyes disappearing only to be replaced by smile lines and a pair of bunny teeth that makes your metal ribcage feel warm, even though it’s not and never will be.

…

There’s an urgent pounding at the door of Jungkook’s lab the next day, right as he is about to render the machine to undergo the transformation.

“Who’s that?” He says to no one in particular, thinking that it was maybe Yoongi coming to check up on him.

You stay silent, watching him closely as he walks towards the door. The trepidation sowing within you is beginning to sprout, but all you can do is wait passively.

“Who-“ Jungkook is cut off as the group of men in black suits forcefully barge in unwelcomed. “Hey!” He shouts as they head straight towards you. “What are you-”

“Grab her!” One of them orders as another man behind him walks up to you and binds both of your arms behind your back.

You scream, but Jungkook is quick to react, sprinting over to your side within a matter of seconds and ripping the suited man off of you.

“We need to get out of here!” He urges, intertwining his hand with yours and making a run for it. You follow as he tugs on your arm, running after him as he keeps your hand gipped firmly within his, and you almost wish you could stay like that forever, that nothing else mattered as long as he was with you.

The two of you run outside, and it’s the first time you feel the warm rays of the sun hit your artificial skin directly. It’s so warm and comforting, a sensation supposedly foreign but so familiar because it’s a physical reminder of all the sunlit days you’ve spent with Jungkook in the past, those from the memories he has gifted you, and it prompts you to momentarily forget that you are running from people who are going to take you away and lock you up because that lovely feeling swelling inside of you is melting everything else away.

“Where are we going?” You shout, keeping your legs moving at the same pace as Jungkook’s.

“The mountains” He replies between raged breaths. “We can hide up there until I figure out a plan.”

You ignore the feeling of guilt that is beginning to nag at you. You hate yourself for putting him through all of this, for continuing to allow him to believe in what the two of you had even though you knew it was wrong. You had known all along. His misjudgment was understandable, but yours wasn't, because your mind was always clear and you’ve always had the power to make things right. You sensed the error in the beginning, and yet you still chose to live in the lie that continues to eat away at Jungkook.

“Don’t worry, Y/N. Everything will be ok. I won’t let them take you away.” His reassuring words hit you like a bucket of ice water and the faint smile tugging at his lips as he turns to glance at you with glassy doe-eyes is a bloodstained dagger jabbing into your chest cavity. And that’s when you realized how much you truly loved him and how unconditionally grateful you were to receive his love despite the circumstances for why he loved you and how flawed everything was, and in that moment you make a promise to yourself that you will end everything and put him out of his misery.

The trail up the mountain is steep, but Jungkook is strong and determined to make it to the top. You watch the trees fly by as the two of you raced though the forest, the sent of musky wood and wild grasses filling your senses and throwing you back to when you and Jungkook had gone camping for the very first time, how happy he was on that day and how that memory seems to only cause him pain now. The contrast only strengthens your resolve, and it wasn’t long before the two of you reach the clearing on the edge of the cliff.

“How could they have found out?” Jungkook shakes his head, covering his face with his hands as he stops to catch his breath. It was impossible, he never let any of the information he was using leak out, and the only other person he told about you was Yoongi. It couldn’t have been him could it?

“I contacted them through my system.” You mumur softly, causing him to freeze in place and his eyes to lift up, meeting yours with growing misunderstanding.

“What?” It comes out as a muted whisper. “You did what?” He takes a step closer and you take one back. “Y/N, why? Why would you tell them?” He rushes up and grips you by the shoulders, examining your body to see if any discernible malfunctions were obvious and he had just been stupid enough to miss it.

You shake your head, fighting your internal system that was trying to convince you what you did was a mistake because it wasn’t, and you knew deep down that you had to do it. “I can’t sit back and watch you ruin yourself any longer.” There are dry tears where real ones should belong in your eyes, and although they don’t stream down your cheek the way they are supposed to, the invisible substance is still able to convey the excruciating agony that has planted itself in the core of your metallic heart. You lift an arm to caress his warm cheek, moistened by his own freshly produced human tears, and he feels so familiar and so endearing that you almost feel alive like her, the missing source that you could never be, and in that infinitesimal second you’re almost able to persuade yourself that despite not being her, you are still real and you have the power to release Jungkook from his self made prison.

So you step back.

Further and further, and it takes all the strength you have to not stop.

“Y/N! NO!!!” He’s screaming, but the world is being drowned out by his desperation. He’s rooted in place, unable to move his numb limbs that are starting to give way. “What are you doing!?” He croaks.

You smile at him one last time before taking the last step towards the edge of the cliff.

“I’m setting you free.”

…

“Listen, Jungkook, I know it’s hard.” Yoongi begins, walking over and settling down on the couch of his apartment next to Jungkook. It had been two weeks since your self-destruction, and Jungkook was finally beginning to wake up.

“I keep making errors” Jungkook shakes his head, balling his hands into fists.

“You’ve only made one error thus far.” The younger male looks up, confused. “Turning her into a robot and thinking that was the equivalent of bringing her back.”

“I thought it worked.” Jungkook’s voice is hollow and empty because he’s not even confident in his own statement.

“I know you programmed her to be identical to Y/N, but she wasn’t Y/N.” Yoongi scoots over quietly and places a tender arm around Jungkook’s shoulder, rubbing his arm calmingly. “You put your memories of her into her, but that’s a completely different standpoint of how Y/N perceived you when she was alive.”

“W-what do you mean? They were memories of us. She knew us. She recognized me.” Jungkook stares off into space, eyebrows furrowing, and head throbbing once more.

“There are two halves of a relationship, two different perspectives that make up the whole.” Yoongi explains. “Those two halves are the same story from opposite points of view. I’m sure she sensed it somewhere along the way, and that’s what made her ultimately destroy herself. She must’ve understood the immense amount of pain you were in and used her artificial intelligence to calculate how to save you.”

“So it would’ve worked if I had somehow used Y/N’s memories instead?”

Yoongi shakes his head sadly. “No matter what you could’ve done, that robot could not have been Y/N. There is only one Y/N in this universe, just like there is only one version of each of us.” Yoongi sighs, pausing to come up with an easier way of looking at the concept. “Look, I don’t want to go into all these theories of what makes us who we are, but I’d like to think there’s much more to us than just flesh, blood, atoms, particles, and even memories. Wouldn’t you also like to think that Y/N was much more than what could be described by ordinary things?”

“Yeah, she was breathtaking and unbelievable in so many ways.”

Jungkook closes his eyes, picturing the last time you smiled at him in the passenger’s seat, how the appearance of your dimples and sparkling eyes made his heart feel so full and warm, like the rays of sunlight that cascade over flowery meadows in the summer and the diamond-like crystals of dazzling snowflakes in the winter. Then his mind drifts over to the you he created with those same memories, the way your artificial features mimicked almost the exact same gesture, making those emotions manifest into tentative form, close enough to feel under the tips of his fingers. And even though it wasn’t the you he had intended to create, he still loved you almost just as much, in almost the exact same way.

“Do you think she loved me?” He asks after a long moment of silence.

“I’m certain they both did.” Yoongi answers.

...

#bts fanfic #jungkook scenarios #bangtan bookclub #sfwbangtan #btswriters #jungkook fanfic #bts scenarios #jungkook x reader #it's not as heavy on the scifi as i normally like to go #but i really wanted to focus on the emotions because the mv really embodied that kind of style #i watched it so many times to try and capture that lol #it's not perfect but #hopefully it's ok #thanks for the request!#requested

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jishnc · 7 years

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Meta: A Tale of Brothers

On Karna, Arjuna, and the significance of their relationship

Forewarning: the relationship between Karna and Arjuna is an extremely complex one with layers upon layers of nuances from both parties and what they mean to one another. That being said, this post will be diving into potentially uncomfortable topics especially regarding Arjuna’s unhealthy mentality and just how unstable of a person he is without Karna. This is going to be an extremely long piece because I feel like it’d be improper to separate all of these topics into different posts when they all relate to one another, but there will be additional side meta posts regarding certain allegories and parallels that I feel work extremely well for their dynamic. Note that this will take concepts from the Mahabharata, general knowledge about Hindu mythology, as well as Arjuna’s interludes and Chapter America from F/GO, so if you’re not at all familiar with any of these then chances are you’re going to be lost as hell. I’ll be doing my best to keep it as accessible as possible, but keep in mind that this is read under the assumption that the reader is familiar with Arjuna’s legend and his presence in the game.

I’m not kidding when I say that it’s going to be a long post ( 7k+ haha kill me ), but as always if there’s any need for clarification feel free to send in any questions and I’ll be happy to answer.

Background

I will not go too deep into their backstory as that is something you can easily find on the TYPE-MOON wiki or just... the internet in general, but the general gist of the story is that Karna was the firstborn son of Kunti born from the sun god Surya, but because he was a child born out of wedlock she was forced to abandon him in a manner akin to Moses in the Bible (basket in the water, later found by a family and taken in as their adopted son). Upon getting wed to King Pandu, Kunti then gives birth to three other sons: Yudhishthira born from the god of the underworld Yama, Bhima born from the wind god Vayu, and Arjuna born from the king of the gods Indra. There are two additional brothers named Nakula and Sahadeva—twins—born through King Pandu's second wife Madri by evoking the Ashwini Kumaras that symbolise the sunrise and sunset. Altogether there are six sons, but there are only five Pandava brothers because Karna is raised as the son of a charioteer who later becomes the mortal enemy of his brothers by taking Duryodhana's side—the oldest son of the Kauravas who are the hundred sons of Dhritarashtra, Pandu's older brother.

As you can see, the overarching conflict of the Mahabharata is one drenched of family blood and spans over generations of tension and conflict that ultimately ended with the Pandavas winning out during the great Kurukshetra War, a war that spanned over the course of eighteen days that ended with the deaths of the Kauravas, most of the Pandavas' children excluding Arjuna's grandson, one of Karna's sons, and a select few warriors who fought on either side. Karna died via decapitation when Arjuna shot an arrow at his neck as he struggled to recover his chariot in order to resume fighting, never realizing that it was his brother that he killed until after the war was over. And it was Kunti told the Pandavas of Karna's relation to them as their older brother and the promises that they made in order to hide the secret: how no matter what would happen Kunti would be left with five sons, how Karna would only pursue Arjuna and dare not touch the other Pandavas, and how neither of them would reveal the truth until everything was resolved. This revelation horrified the brothers and after a period of rule they retired from the material world and went on a final journey to the Himalayas where they one by one, all except Yudhishthira, perished due to their earthly attachments and arrogance.

Relation

Now, while the relationships between Kunti's sons are extremely important, this post will be talking exclusively about the relationship between Karna and Arjuna and how their struggle is extremely crucial to their development as characters who hail from opposite sides of the spectrum yet originate from similar circumstances. It's no secret that Karna is someone who experienced a lifetime of tragedy and misfortune despite the fact that he was, at his core a genuinely good person (“you are like the good earth to the seeds, like rain clouds to living beings, ever dependable, firm in your loyalty”), he “who was reputed for his charity,” and he who stood taller and stronger than any warrior—the single ray of hope for the Kaurava camp to have any chance at defeating the Pandavas. And it's because of these tragedies that Karna was fated to perish during the Kurukshetra War while Arjuna is fated to come out on top. But Arjuna himself has also faced strife which is depicted in the Mahabharata in the form of his 13-year long exile and a childhood of being constantly harassed by Duryodhana who came to despise the Pandavas thanks to Shakuni. This is not to devalue Karna's misfortune, but one should also take into consideration that while Arjuna himself experienced a lot of blessings and had the fortune of being having a privileged upbringing and being surrounded by constant love and admiration, he too faced his own battles and had a strife that lived deep within himself, “a black shadow strongly rooted within his heart since childhood…”

Perhaps the most important aspect of Karna and Arjuna's relationship is the fact that they are not only brothers—one abandoned and the other accepted—but also eternal rivals, people who from the very moment they met despised one another yet respected the other party enough to see him as a warrior of significant strength. Arjuna fails to recognize Karna for what he is capable of due to social standings with him as a Kshatriya—one of a warrior class/of the military or royal elite—and his brother at the time being the son of a lowly charioteer, because it would have been extremely improper if he were to accept the fact that this nameless upstart dared to come in, uninvited, and accomplishing a feat of archery that only Arjuna was thought capable of doing. Yet there is a lot of envy and anger, “...blazing wrath fill[ed] Arjuna, who felt affronted. And glaring fiercely at Karna who stood, stately as a mountain peak, receiving the greetings of the Kaurava brothers, he said: "O Karna, slain by me thou shalt presently go to the hell appointed for those who intrude uninvited and prate unbidden." With the existence of someone who is just as, if not more, capable with the bow than Arjuna who was thought the supreme archer at the time, it's not surprising that Arjuna who knew only constant validation and held nothing but confidence in his archery to become defensive when what he knew ever since he was a child was brought into question.

Karna, on the other hand, was raised with a humble upbringing, but he was also an ambitious person who became as strong as he was by pure merit alone and because he had the pure-hearted desire to learn the art of combat, going to such lengths as to deceive Parasurama in order to learn how to use the Brahmastra, and for his entire life Karna would continue to experience repeated humiliation and insult because of the station of his birth:

"This prince, who is ready to fight with thee, is the son of Pritha and Pandu and a scion of the Kuru race. Reveal O mighty armed thy parentage and the race rendered illustrious by thy birth. It is only after knowing thy lineage that Partha can fight with thee, for high-born princes cannot engage in single combat with unknown adventurers." When he heard these words, Karna bent down his head like a lotus under the weight of rainwater.

And if that weren't enough, Karna lived a sum of his life completely aware of Arjuna and how he was known throughout the kingdom as the greatest archer of his generation, so from the very beginning their rivalry was set in stone (where Arjuna only saw the eye of a bird and fired at it with perfect precision, Karna saw nothing and managed to pierce both eyes of a bird by simply sensing where it was) with Karna pushing himself everyday to become a superior archer with Surya (his biological father) as his metaphorical teacher—essentially, compared to Arjuna who was constantly surrounded by teachers who educated him in every field of war, Karna was completely self-taught and got to where he was based purely on merit and merit alone. Before they met, Karna looked up to Arjuna as someone he dreamed to surpass (a shadow with his back constantly turned, yet as they grew old and death claimed one for himself the tides turned and it was soon Arjuna who chased after Karna like a man possessed), and when the two were finally able to meet face to face, those very sentiments were reciprocated but in the form of a fierce envy that would become the killing arrow that pierced the older's neck.

Perfect Foils

Where Karna is the Hero of Charity, Arjuna is the Awarded Hero. Karna, who gave away his armor and gold when asked, was someone who embodied everything about charity to the point where it was the only way anyone was even capable of killing him. Arjuna, who lived his entire life surrounded by love and gave love freely to everyone around him, was blessed with countless gifts, boons, and such an immense fortune that he was even able to cheat death because of his naga wife Ulupi reviving him after being slain by his son Babruvahana. Despite—rather, because—they were brothers the two of them were fated to be perfect foils of one another be it be it through their personality traits, their appearances, or even by the gods and warriors who have blessed them with their various astras and blessings.

As stated prior, Karna is known as the Hero of Charity, a man who is completely genuine and pure in character who had the power to conquer the entire world, yet was bound by a fierce code of ethics to serve those who have given him kindness and fought until the bitter end with honor, truth, and acceptance that his actions have caused immense pain to the Pandavas and “brought his end on himself." Yet despite his virtuous character, Karna was immensely bitter because of his displaced origins, resenting Kunti for abandoning him and forsaking him to live his entire life being put down as a Sutaputra, a charioteer's son, saying:

“You deprived me of all that was my birthright as a kshatriya when you threw me, a helpless babe, into the river. And now, you talk to me of my duties as a kshatriya. You denied me the motherly love, which blesses all life. And now, thinking of your other children's good, you tell me this story. If I now join the Pandavas, will not the world proclaim that I have done so out of fear?”

Karna, caught between a family he only recently learned about and his obligation towards Duryodhana who gave him a kingdom and took Karna under his wing when everyone else laughed and disparaged him, it was only natural that he chose the latter. To him, his true mother was Radha, a woman who loved and raised him from birth as if he was one of her own. His true brother was Shon who helped him during the years where Karna resolved to teach himself the art of combat, and while he was certainly a devotee of Surya and went so far as to consider him his guru, the only father he knew was Adhiratha, but Karna still cared for the brothers he never knew—still respected and cared for Arjuna even when he prepared himself to shed the blood of his own brother in order to fulfill the debt he owed to Duryodhana.

Arjuna, despite being given everything he could ever ask for and lived at the peak of luxury without ever needing to ask for anything, still felt empty and bitter because within him lived two versions of him who were at constant war with one another: one side is the hero Arjuna who was exceptionally loyal, kind, respectful to his teachers and sensitive to those around him; the other is the resentment towards his inability to be wholly good like Karna, “a personality that lurked under the surface always giving counsel, with a different systematic thought process, priorities, and retained code of ethics” that felt pure hatred in his heart despite his fortunate upbringing. He was treated with reverence and taught only to ever have pride in his talent as an archer with duty rising above everything else as he went on a twelve-year exile for the simple reason he wanted to do good and be good no matter the cost.

The image of being a perfect hero meant everything to Arjuna and compared to Karna who did it effortlessly simply because that was his nature, the same couldn't be said for Arjuna because in the end, it was his arrogance towards his own archery which killed him, fooling himself into believing he was the greatest archer in the world after killing the one man who dared to stand on equal ground. If there is any indication of Arjuna having respect for Karna, it's seen during their fight during the Kurukshetra War where he actually gives Karna time to try and lift his chariot from the mud when the honorable warrior in Arjuna relented with the hopes of continuing their fight from the day they met, yet despite all of this “Arjuna's mind was wavering. His hand hesitated to do what was not chivalrous ... Arjuna accepted this command of the Lord and sent an arrow which cut and severed the head of the Radheya.”

Designs

If we are to look at the designs in Fate regarding Arjuna and Karna, it's evident that they were intended to be extreme depictions of polar opposites where Karna is red and Arjuna is blue, classic colors that not only symbolize their paternal origins (Karna being the son of the sun and Arjuna being the son of the sky) but also their personalities and how they are constantly clashing and at constant ends with one another. Karna, despite his laid-back and apathetic exterior, is an extremely passionate and heroic individual who is a lover of battle and candidly speaks his thoughts without powdering sugar or pleasantries to soften the blow. In contrast, Arjuna is associated with the color blue which usually attributes to self-control and introvertedness, usually attempting to be the calm aspect of the dynamic, and this is especially true if we are to look at how Arjuna behaves around his Master with saying pleasantries such as “when it comes to you and I, surely you recognize my greatness. Yet, that is irrelevant. You are my Master. I regard that fact highly,” and “so, it's the day of your birth. Congratulations. Be grateful to your parents, your teachers, your friends, and whoever is important to you.” Of course, that is not to say that Karna isn't the same way, but if one were to compare the lines that the two of them possess where they thank their Master, Karna more often than not comes out on top with lines thanking Gudao/Gudako during his ascensions, almost all of his bond levels, and dialogues; even Karna's interlude revolves around him trying to do something for his Master whereas Arjuna's first interlude involves him showing off his strength and testing Gudao/Gudako to see if they are worthy of his loyalty.

Returning to their designs once more, where Karna dons sparse armor and is mostly in a skin-tight suit and a cloak of fire, Arjuna is commonly depicted wearing a completely white outfit with long sleeves and fabric that covers his front and back as an indication that he is a reserved person who does not want to have blood on his hands nor share any part of himself to others—this can also be seen with the fact that he wears gloves in every single one of his ascension artworks whereas Karna loses all of his armor as he wields Vasavi Shakti in his final ascension artwork. Karna's hair is depicted as being relatively messy and sweeping into a mess of spikes, Arjuna's is very “normal,” clean, and if he were to wear modern clothing it's likely that he could slip into anonymity and never draw attention to himself. Interestingly, Karna is actually smiling in his third and fourth ascension artwork whereas Arjuna maintains a rather composed disposition throughout his first three illustrations until his final ascension where he is evidently smiling, but it is concealed behind his hand while he brandishes a knife in his left hand. This particular image is certainly an allusion to his second interlude where Krishna—who is depicted as Arjuna in his third ascension outfit—“sits upon his throne, looking down on us (Gudao/Gudako, Arjuna, and Karna) with a scornful smile. He isn’t the least bit afraid of straying from his path as a warrior.” If one were to take into consideration that the image that is cast upon the saint graphs in Fate/Grand Order a gradation of a Servant becoming more and more like their ideal self, one might say that Arjuna's ideal self is not so much the version of him who tries to be a hero (his second ascension art) despite his true personality saying otherwise, then we can assume that the version of Arjuna who has taken on the name “Krishna” is Arjuna in his truest form; I have touched upon this already, but for the sake of keeping everything present in the same post, these are my thoughts on the matter:

For much of the interlude we’re under the impression that the Arjuna we’re with is the “true” one in that they’re the part of Arjuna who’s struggling to hide everything about their true desires and unheroic deeds, the part that’s struggling to play the role of a hero, and we’re made to think that “Krishna” is the part of him that we’re supposed to confront a la Persona 4 style. When read like this, it makes a lot of sense and it ends happily with Arjuna reconciling with the fact that, in the end, he’s the one who shot the arrow that killed Karna and it was his decision to do so.

Now, it’s great the Arjuna’s finally got the character he deserved, but this one part of the dialogue bothers the hell out of me because I can’t help but think there’s something fundamentally wrong about it:

Arjuna: Of course. That may very well be. But I’ve made up my mind. No longer will I fear my own regrets.

Krishna: ….. …..

Krishna: I see… Then all you’ve left is to entrust them to me.

Arjuna: Krishna… ?

Krishna: Maybe, just maybe… My very existence has become that much of a problem for you.

Arjuna: I haven’t a clue as to what you’re saying…

Krishna: Oh, it’s not important. Pay me no mind. … now, it’s about time you awakened from this dream, Gudako.

When you think about it, the two Arjunas are both fundamentally Arjuna, so it would make absolutely no sense for either one of them to disappear ( or does it? ), which leaves the question of what happened to the two Arjunas after Gudao/Gudako left ( because Krishna immediately told Gudao/Gudako to leave after realizing he might’ve said too much ).

One way to read it is that the two of them became one personality that embraces his role as a Heroic Spirit while also accepting the deeds he has committed in life.

Compared to Karna who remains relatively the same and unchanged throughout his ascension with only becoming closer to Gudao/Gudako the closer they get, Arjuna becomes distant and visibly upset because being close to him is the last thing a Master should ever do with someone like Arjuna who will not hesitate to betray his own Master if it means preserving the fragile exterior that is him being the symbol of virtue and the perfect hero. Compared to Arjuna's fourth ascension art, Karna's is extremely tame with simply being an illustration of him reaching out his hand while in his second design (aka the one from Apocrypha) and being extremely welcoming and leaving his face free of obstructions and nothing of the ulterior motive that's seen with Arjuna holding a knife as if plotting murder (chances are, he is thinking about murdering Gudao/Gudako—has considered it if we are to assume that “Krishna” is anything to go by).

Whitewashing aside—because nothing about Karna being depicted as being the color of chalk will ever be okay under any circumstances—it's only natural that the two of them would be seen as extreme opposites to one another both mentally and physically.

Associations With Gods

Throughout the Mahabharata, Karna and Arjuna are given various astras by gods and gurus alike, and unique associations with them as well as the astras they possess provide a lot of insight as to how perfectly matched they are in terms of firepower.

The most obvious associations can be found in their biological fathers, Karna being the son of Surya the sun god, and Arjuna being the son of Indra the king of the gods and all forms of weather. Karna, from youth, was always associated closely with Surya between being a simple devotee to looking up to him as a guru when no one else would dare instruct a charioteer's son in the art of combat. Karna is seen prior to the Kurukshetra War giving his prayers to Surya, is seen to have a background of communicating with his father through dreams and even though physical conversation, and is so in-tune with the thoughts of his father that “when his mother spoke thus to him at the end of his devotions to the sun, Karna felt a sign in his heart that the Sun god endorsed Kunti's request. But he checked himself and took it to mean that the Sun god was testing his loyalty and strength of mind. He should not be found wanting.” It is also stated that when Karna passed onto the afterlife and his body burned in a funeral pyre that he became one once more with Surya which is seen in the fact that his Divinity skill is higher than that of most demigods, Arjuna included.

Indra takes on a more active role compared to Surya in the Mahabharata as seen when “Indra foresaw that a supreme contest was inevitable between his son Arjuna and Karna. And he put on the garb of a brahmana and came to Karna, who was reputed for his charity and begged of him his earrings and armor.” Additionally, he takes a more active part in aiding his son by conversing with him and giving him advice, and honestly just seems very fond of Arjuna given how often he shows up in person before him:

“The ascetic smiled and spoke affectionately to Arjuna: "Child, you are clad in armor and carry weapons. Who are you? Weapons are of no use here. What do you seek in this garb of a kshatriya in this abode of ascetics and saints who have conquered anger and passion?" That was Indra, the king of gods, who came to have the pleasure of meeting his son.”

For Arjuna the case where he takes after Indra most is extremely evident given that they once fought unfairly, Arjuna possesses similar abilities to his father in the form of shooting lightning-fast arrows and carrying a great number of astras in his name, and the fact that arrogance is their hamartia and deceit a habit they draw from often; there's also a lot of parallels that can be drawn from the conflict between Indra and Vritra as seen in the Mahabharata, but that is a post for another day that I will preface with this: "O blameless ones, how can Indra, and I become friends? Forgive me. There cannot be friendship between rivals for supremacy. Two great powers cannot coexist..."

Continuing on the topic of Indra, his interactions on the physical plane don't stop at Arjuna as he appears before countless individuals including Karna who trades him Kundala and Kavacha (his armor and earring which grants him near-invincibility) for Vasavi Shakti which is the iconic lance he possesses as a Lancer in Fate:

“After accepting the gift, he praised Karna as having done what no one else would do, and, shamed into generosity, bade Karna ask for any boon he wanted.” “You can use this weapon against but one enemy, and it will kill him whosoever he may be. But this killing done, this weapon will no longer be available to you but will return to me.”

Personally the way they integrate Kundala and Kavacha as being components which make up Vasavi Shakti is a very nice homage to the legend associated with it, and it's one of the few things that I will praise regarding Karna's design in the series.

As for other gods, perhaps one of the most important interactions involve Arjuna procuring his trademark Gandiva and fighting Shiva in order to acquire Pashupatastra. Gandiva is a bow created by Brahma for the purpose of protecting Dharma and is given to Arjuna by Agni, the god of fire, who wanted to devour the Khandava forest as a means to regain his strength. Upon aiding him, Arjuna demands a weapon fitting of his strength and so is bestowed with Gandiva as well as numerous other gifts including two inexhaustible quivers. Arjuna's quest for the Pashupatastra, however, was much more complicated and was done by the suggestion of Indra who said, "if you be blessed by the vision of god Siva, the three-eyed god, and obtain his grace, you will receive divine weapons. Do penance unto Siva.”

To sum up a cool but very brief fight scene, Arjuna gets into a fight with a disguised Shiva (much to his enjoyment because he's a blood knight in denial), loses tremendously, and when he realizes that he was trying to kill the god of destruction immediately asks for forgiveness and is given Pashupatastra out of good sportsmanship by Shiva (not pictured: Arjuna fanboying over meeting Shiva).

Comparatively, Karna does not have as many divine meetings outside of the various gurus and the gods aforementioned when it comes to acquiring his own astras, but it should be noted that Karna possessed the knowledge to invoke some of the most dangerous astras in the entire Mahabharata including some that could potentially destroy the entire world if he isn't careful; additionally, he's the only person other than Drona who knows how to use Brahmanda astra which can both repel any astra but also has the potential to destroy entire solar systems. And this is not including his knowledge of Brahmashirsha astra which summons cursed meteors from the sky, Bhargavastra which can destroy the entire world, among others outside the usage of Vijaya which is his signature bow.

Gandiva vs. Vijaya

Despite Arjuna being incredibly famous for his archery, it is stated through numerous stories that Karna surpasses him on every level except one instance which had Draupadi's hand in marriage at stake. If one were to compare Gandiva and Vijaya, it's evident even with the creators of these bows that they were fated to be mortal enemies with Gandiva being made by a creator and Vijaya by the destroyer. Gandiva was fitted with 108 bowstrings, screams like thunder, and in Fate it creates missiles engulfed in flames that are fitted with a homing capability due to Arjuna's skill as an archer.

Vijaya—which means victory and coincidentally one of Arjuna's other nicknames—is a bow created to destroy the cities of asuras and used actual gods as components for its arrow which lends to it augmenting the power of the arrows that pass through its bowstring by a thousand times. Comparatively, Vijaya is hands down stronger than Gandiva and were it not for the curses which prevented Karna from using it during their fight, Arjuna would have eventually lost the fight. And it's that sort of futility in strength that continued to fuel Arjuna's anger and hate towards Karna, especially when knowing that it's only due to a number of extremely specific circumstances that even allowed his victory to happen in the first place.

Karna and Arjuna, a Perfect Dichotomy

The best way to describe their relationship is as follows: “two people who can’t live together but cannot live without each other.”

As one might assume now after paragraph upon paragraph of explaining the hard evidence behind the fact that Karna and Arjuna are constantly set up to be perfect foils of one another, this is where all of the literary and philosophy-based analyses come into play. This is also where I will begin detracting from the Mahabharata and focusing on Fate's interpretation of the characters alongside my personal ones.

Like fire to ice, light to dark, day and night, yin and yang, Karna and Arjuna are destined to be perfect opposites to one another in every sense of the word and it is the recurring theme of this analysis because it's because they're so different yet so similar at times that they are able to have this wonderfully complex and tragic relationship of brothers who were separated by fate only to come together on opposing fields in war and one dying before the other. Everything about the Mahabharata is a lesson to be learned, and theirs that even the greatest of people can be brought to their knees, that being good does not always mean you will get your way in the end, and that duty triumphs over everything no matter how painful it may be in the aftermath. And as Heroic Spirits, Arjuna is constantly plagued with a desire to have his long-awaited rematch again with his brother because the ones they had in life were either cut short before either of them could draw their weapon, or it was intervened by another party and it's something that repeats itself long after their death in the form of Chapter America where Cu Alter kills Karna as the two of them are fighting against one another.

The thing, though, is that this feeling is mutual between both of them because like Siegfried and Fafnir, Karna and Arjuna's destinies are irrevocably tied to one another and where one exists some part of the other will appear no matter what: it's why Karna sees a resemblance between Siegfried and Arjuna, and how Gilgamesh is the only person in CCC Extra who is on the same fighting level as Karna—there will always be an equal in some shape or form to stand against them. They are both “infected with the same incurable disease” which makes them seek out one another endlessly in order to have that long-awaited rematch, so that they may finally lay things to rest. And it's only after over two thousand years, in America, where time and space are falling apart, that they are able to not only fight but begin to understand each other past what they knew in life. Arjuna's development began the moment Cu Alter killed Karna and left him alone to pick up the pieces and finally begin to reciprocate the kind of understanding that Karna's had on him for so long now:

Karna: We share an unfortunately unbreakable bond, but we have known each other longer than anyone. Therefore, in deference to that fate, let us make a promise. When it comes the time for you to shoot me, do so fulfilling your duty as a Heroic Spirit. Use the Roar of the Blazing God, the Agni Gandiva, to save the world.

And Arjuna does save the world by sacrificing himself in a way that would make his brother proud, and in his final moments he says:

Arjuna: I hope—this small gift helped. Karna... your feelings, Now I... somewhat...

The presence of Karna serves as an extremely important centerpiece for Arjuna's development as a character because he is where all of Arjuna's insecurities and doubts lie, because Karna is everything that Arjuna wants to be and successfully assumes them as an exterior, but fails to feel them as genuine concepts within his true self. There is a layer of mutual acknowledgement and regard but where Karna is being completely genuine, Arjuna struggles to maintain a perfect mask without realizing that he’s been fooling himself all this time. Where his brother represents truth, Arjuna is the shadow of lies, an embodiment of falsehood born from the overwhelmingly high expectations of those before him. He despises Karna because he is both everything he wants to be while seeing through Arjuna's well-guarded masks and seeing for himself the kind of anger and hate dwells deep inside of his brother. There's a constant contradiction with how Arjuna treats everything and while one may call it inconsistent, I see it as evidence for the fact that there are indeed “two Arjunas” who are constantly at war with one another because Arjuna refuses to accept that the “Krishna” aspect of him is simply another side of his personality (because to him Karna is absolutely perfect and someone who doesn't have a dark emotion inside of him and he seeks to emulate that by donning that outwardly guise of a true hero who effortlessly exacts justice simply because it's in his nature to do so), and it's the center of all of this conflict where Arjuna seeks to escape from himself and Karna is simply a gross reminder of all of his shame and guilt.

Karna is a bright, luminous sun, and Arjuna is the moon that reflects that radiant light in an attempt to call it his own because whatever thing his upbringing created is something that cannot conform properly inside of himself—at least, not in the way Arjuna imagined. And this sun/moon analogy is something that I will be clinging onto as a motif for a good while because not only does it fit with their concept of being perfect opposites, but it also underscores the fact that neither of them can be present around the other for long periods of time and that Arjuna's current disposition as a person trying to emulate the perfect hero is something that unconsciously circles heavily around Karna the same way the moon reflects light from the sun like a mirror. Without Karna, Arjuna is doomed to repeat his cycle of self-loathing because there is truly no other person in the world or even in the Throne of Heroes who knows him the way Karna does, much less knows how to handle him and his hate with the steadfast understanding that Karna brings to the table.

Arjuna's 2nd Interlude

Guilt is an extremely important concept that follows Arjuna throughout his entire life, because he does feel regret for killing Karna while he was unarmed and hates himself for becoming such a wretched person. And this is where Arjuna's value of duty and his humanity start to conflict with one another which leads to him standing at a crossroads between every part of him that accepts his sin, feels ambivalent to it, or outright rejects the fact that he is even capable of sinning. Arjuna's 2nd interlude involves a lot of him simply accepting the fact that yes, he does possess hate, but that doesn't necessarily make him a bad person because Arjuna, no matter how horrible he acts at times due to his insecurities, is far from being an inherently terrible human being. It's a culmination of nurture to overthinking to never opening up to someone about the idea that perhaps there might be something wrong. As a result, Arjuna ends up killing the one person who even had a chance at knowing what went through his mind at the time:

I killed the only person who truly understood me in this world. I had no regrets, let alone ones regarding the inevitable destiny that I must fight with my sworn rival. Ahh, but even then… That dazzling golden armor. Adorned in that, he went flying across the battlefield – He was a hero, as well as the only soul who knew the truth about how disgusting “I” was.

Arjuna hates Karna, yes, but it runs more than mere hate: there is admiration, there is respect, there is fear, and there is a brotherly love despite never seeing him as one until long after death. Karna has become a shadow in Arjuna’s life that he’s constantly trying to reach because he wants validation and acknowledgement from his greatest rival that, yes, despite the fact that Karna is an infinitely better fighter in both virtue in strength, that Arjuna is someone who is worthy of standing on that same level in spite of all of his too-human feelings making him feel even worse about himself. The irony here is that despite everything that Karna says to Arjuna with regarding him as a capable fighter and the reason why he tries so hard to surpass the son of Indra is because he has lived his entire life being mocked and insulted, and when he gets a once-in-a-lifetime chance to finally prove his worth, his station as a Sutaputra gets in the way. In a sense, Karna, too, once sought validation in Arjuna in order to prove to the world that he isn’t simply the son of a charioteer, that he can rise above his station and become something more; and when he does upon becoming a king of Anga, he continues to seek after Arjuna by following the path of virtue instead of following Duryodhana’s heinous schemes (more often than not does he disparage Duryodhana and even calls him out on his evils, but it’s never enough because there always needs to be a villain in every story—it’s simply unfortunate that Karna is one of them).

Arjuna's tale of revenge in his maddened quest to kill Karna ends as many revenge stories do: with a brief period of levity followed by a harrowing emptiness once everything is said and done and there is nothing else to tie him down to the world. It's an opposite effect to what Arjuna wants to wish from the Grail which is eternal solitude because he perceives himself as the one who is consistently getting left behind. In life, Karna died before him due to Arjuna losing himself in a fit of rage. In America, Cu Alter stabs Karna before Arjuna is able to do it himself (and this sends him flying in an absolute rage). And in Apocrypha and Extra CCC it's the person who is the most Arjuna-like in role who kills Karna. One might say that whether he realizes it or not Arjuna is always fated to cause Karna's death be it done intentionally or otherwise.

But I digress, because Arjuna's 2nd interlude is less about his relationship with Karna and more about himself overcoming the pressing guilt of not being the perfect, saintly hero that he wishes he could be. And the level of denial that Arjuna puts himself through in order deny this truth is impossibly staggering when his mental depiction of Karna has to him that the “perfect hero” persona isn't going to work anymore:

Karna: Don’t resort to such deception, Arjuna. You’ve long forgotten one critical thing we Servants must remember. As long as that limits you, you are no true Servant.

A very interesting thing is that, while Karna was originally set up in the interlude to be a trial of sorts for Arjuna to overcome, Arjuna actually spares his life which allows Karna to become a Virgil-like figure towards Arjuna's Dante who has committed the grave sin of killing his brother while unarmed and now must face his greatest fears if he is ever to find salvation as a Heroic Spirit. Take this a step further and Karna becomes a guide throughout Arjuna's entire life a constant stepping stone or benchmark for Arjuna to reach in his search to truly become a proper hero. Whenever Karna speaks in the interlude it is always pregnant with meaning in an attempt to get Arjuna to face the truth no matter how ugly it might be, and this dynamic—however brief it may by—is Arjuna walking one step closer in realizing that it's okay if he isn't perfect. And despite Karna in this interlude not being real, I think Arjuna already understands perfectly how Karna would behave if he were in this situation (that or he's unconsciously holding to the distant idea of Karna being and older brother/mentor-like person someday) and whatever realization he had in Chapter America has culminated to him understanding perfectly what it is that Karna tried to convey to him before his death. Because as a Heroic Spirit I firmly believe that should Arjuna ever appear in a Holy Grail War outside of F/GO with Karna, he would want to stand against Arjuna in a way that would help him grow by serving as a constant point of conflict, the greatest obstacle, simply because of this quote:

Karna: Like how various symbols stood in the way of Rama during his lifetime, I will always stand in Arjuna’s way to symbolize an antagonist.

It's why when “Krishna” appears that it's only fitting that he takes on Arjuna's face because Arjuna's true conflict is not Karna, not the Krishna who drove his chariot, but himself.

Karna: And to you Krishna, who are Arjuna’s companion… You exist here also as a symbol of evil. A black shadow strongly rooted within his heart since childhood… A personality that lurked under the surface always giving counsel, with a different systematic thought process, priorities, and retained code of ethics.

“A black shadow strongly rooted within his heart since childhood...” implies that Arjuna has always been this way and that assumption would be correct given his disdain for others getting too close to him, and how “Krishna” behaves as if this is a regular occurrence where he kills anyone who dares to see the “true Arjuna,” which alone has all sorts of implications such as Arjuna possibly killing his Master if they try to get too close to him, yet trying to obstruct change is exactly what Karna is trying to fix. Living every moment of his life in fear of change, in fear of realizing what might happen if he embraces the truth rather than moving on, is a very real situation and a fear that is not easy to overcome, especially for people like Arjuna who was so happily content with being the best of the best until Karna stepped in. And Karna is certainly a giant force of change and an upheaval of traditions that can be seen in a positive light as it encourages self-improvement and re-installs the desire to become stronger as an individual:

Karna: For that very reason, I felt it was best to oppose you for all of eternity. But things have changed. Evolved, even. At that stage in America, you finally came to understand my feelings… or at least, you’d begun to.

Arjuna: …. that seemingly perpetual combat with Karna. All I’d wanted at the time was to be put at ease. My very existence had become so stunted that I was seized with despair over whether I was truly worthy of the warrior name.

Arjuna is very much so a victim of contentment and the world around him saying that he is the greatest without giving him a monumental trial equivocal to David's Goliath in order to prove that he is the best without needing to resort to underhanded tactics, thus pushing him further within himself in order to justify everything that he has done as something that had justified ends.

Karna: You have to say it, Arjuna. There is no proper answer. All you can do is cling desperately onto that belief of yours until the end. You may lose your way at times. But that is why we walk side-by-side with our Master.

This is why Karna is such an important person regarding Arjuna's character development because were he not present—if Arjuna killed him prior to this interaction, “Krishna” may very well have killed Gudao/Gudako and Arjuna would become even more worse off now that he's officially gotten them involved with something that he tried adamantly to hide, because he knew that this would happen and the self-loathing would only get worse from there on. Karna is the one person who truly understands Arjuna because he is the one who was victim to Arjuna's true personality, so him serving as a guide rather than an enemy gives an interesting light as to how things would be if they were indeed allies. No one—absolutely no one—will ever understand Arjuna the same way Karna does, and it's an important thing that I have to stress time and time again because Karna is his direct opposite, a soul who stands on the opposite side of the spectrum and the center of all of Arjuna's focus as a Heroic Spirit. Arjuna has already killed Karna once before, and while he is infinitely willing to do it again, few would dare have the ability to not only point out all of Arjuna's flaws, but to find ways for him to become better and steadily walk towards a path to self-improvement. Nothing about this, mind you, is under the implications that Arjuna will become even more of the pure person he wishes to become; rather, it's under the pretense that Arjuna is human and therefore a flawed person who is just as capable of hating someone as he is caring or loving another person. It's something that he must learn to admit, so that he can step forward towards a brighter path without any of his pain or his guilt:

Krishna: … so you’re capable of recognizing your evil nature now. In life, and even in death as a Heroic Spirit, you know nothing will change. All your life will be spent in regret.

Arjuna: Of course. That may very well be. But I’ve made up my mind. No longer will I fear my own regrets.

#( the wicked must be conquered by honesty. )#(( the most important piece of writing I'll ever make for this blog ))#(( If people actually read through this entire thing I applaud you ))#(( this wasn't easy to write tbh and I had to look back ))#(( at the epic just to talk about it lsdkjf ))#(( their relationship means so much ))#(( to me and it's something that I wish to portray to the best of my abilities ))#(( because that is an entire world of undiscovered material ))#(( and I sincerely hope that a future work covers it ))#(( this took sm out of me ))#(( i'm going to bed ))

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iceepsy · 7 years

Text

Cauterize

Fire Emblem Fates Birthright AU: What if Birthright was a tragedy depicting Corrin’s mental downfall?

Chapter 1: In The End

Thanks to @cup-ah-jho for betaing! I can’t thank you enough; you’ve been a great help. Notes: Birthright ending spoilers from the get-go.

In the end.

Kamui doesn’t know when time started to slow. Did it start when she plunged the Yato one final time into Garon’s flesh, feeling the resistance of the blade? From Garon’s last moan and glazed eyes, a telling sign that the war is finally over? If not, then it must have began when Azura collapsed behind her moments after, the short-lived victory quickly replaced with a chill that ran from the base of her neck to the tips of her exposed toes.

In the months, years, that Kamui has known Azura, she has never seen the dancer look so fragile and helpless. She drops the Yato at the sight of her companion’s leg, bloodied and twisted at an unnaturally painful angle, and the sword lands with a resounding clang that echoes much too loudly in the demolished throne room. Kamui follows suit, collapsing next to her sword and cradling Azura’s head as the other’s breath catches.

“Sorry, but it looks like I wasn’t able to keep my promise,” Azura whispers as she weakly places her hand over Kamui’s, rubbing circles with her thumb as she had often done before. The once comforting motion that helped Kamui through sweat-drenched nightmares now makes her dread its inevitable end. All Kamui wants to do is scream—“You liar! You promised to see this world peaceful once more! You promised a future with me!”—but something holds her voice back and knocks the breath from her lungs. The most she is able to let out are broken sentences and uncontrollable sobs that her best friend tries to placate. “Kamui, I’m happy, truly. Don’t forget...this is the peace you and I have dreamed of. Live your fullest.” Really, Kamui thinks bitterly, who is the one dying?

“Please,” Azura asks, as her golden eyes dim, “can I see you smile one last time?”

And Kamui tries, returning a lopsided smile that has never felt so forced. Having finally found her voice, she begs Azura, “I can’t lose you as well; I can’t lose anyone else.”

It was not supposed to turn out this way; she was not supposed to have lost so much. After all, hadn’t she chosen the right path like the heros from her childhood storybooks? They slayed evil monarchs, fought for the poor, and have never lost or mourned. So then why, if she thought she had followed them, did she lose her dear siblings and friends? She looks to Azura for an answer to her silent questions. However, her best friend has already closed her eyes, deaf to her thoughts, showing a faint smile despite her other marred features.

Kamui looks around again at the desolate room. The regal tapestries that depicted scenes of Nohrian court life have been stained with ash, forever tarnished. The decorative columns were shattered from careless fighting, causing pieces of the expansive ceiling to give way. Any treasures that the throne room once proudly displayed have been raided by less honorous royal guards. To think Kamui once saw this palace as inviting, as home. Xander’s and Elise's deaths still haunt her. She can still see Elise, once the light of her life, now lifeless. If Kamui didn’t know better, save for the blossoming red spreading on her sister’s chest, she would have thought Elise was sleeping peacefully, wearing the pale makeup common for court royals. Kamui is still in disbelief Xander died. She had always imagined his death to be in a grand battle that people would remember for centuries and not a battle with his weak sister. Xander still sits in the hall as if he is resting: a pitiful death.

Kamui shakily stands up, laughing at the ridiculous turn of events. She picks up the Yato, thrown carelessly near Azura, still dripping with Garon’s blood. She half wishes her adopted father’s blood was another color: black, green, or even blue, so that does not feel like she just killed another human. If Garon were a monster, her approach would have been justified. Nevertheless, Garon’s blood will soon be caked into the divine blade like all the others: like Iago, Hanz, and all the other Nohrians she’s killed.

-----

She can still hear Garon’s maniacal laughter as if this entire war had been his original plan. When she confronted him, Garon stared out at the crumbling walls that gave way to the town hovering overhead. “Foolish child,” he spoke in greeting, “is this the peace you have sought? Look long and hard at the destruction you have caused in your wake. Look back at Nohr and see the outcome of the path you have chosen.”

“Of course!” Kamui retaliated, “The only means of peace is by killing you! You caused this war! You planted that sword! You killed my mother!” She wanted to strangle him slowly, gouge out his eyes, and break a finger for each of the wrongdoings he caused to her and to Hoshido. Though, Kamui thinks bitterly that Garon would not have enough fingers.

She was ready to attack but Garon’s next words kept her rooted in place. The king of Nohr turned to her and whispered with poison dripping from his tongue, “Now come, child, you must think of the future for both countries. Nohr needs to be restored to its former glory. It’s only you who can fulfill that role, you know.” Kamui’s ears felt stuffed with cotton balls. Garon continued, “Xander secretly always wanted you to ascend the throne. Camilla does not have the strength to rule. When you left, she only wallowed in her room: a despondent bitch.”

The thought Garon proposed was ludicrous; Kamui had, of course, objected. Despite her verbal refusal, her mind continued to think. Xander had always treated her differently—his little princess. He had let her win. He had protected her. He had said that she could lead this world to peace.

“By default, the next in line is you. Dear Corrin, you should know you are still my precious daughter.”

His words were like a spell weaving and twisting across her body, petrifying her. She as Nohr’s ruler? He must be wrong; he’s the enemy. Even as Garon charged at Kamui, Bolverk above his head, she stayed rooted in spot. Only after the sudden movement of a spear cutting between her and Garon, distracting him, did Kamui dodge. She was quite surprised at his strength considering she had only ever seen him sitting on the throne; there was now a deep impression where he had struck.

Kamui gave Azura a grateful look as the dancer found her way next to her. The two flowed like water, swirling around Garon, dodging his attacks by a hair’s breadth. Azura sang her song, empowering Kamui to attack faster, cut deeper, and guard stronger. They were winning, Kamui thought happily. That is, until Garon surprised them both by parrying Kamui’s thrust with his axe while using his other hand to knock Azura to the side with a sickening crunch.

“Azura!” Kamui cries. To her relief, she heard Azura reply with a winded, “I’m okay.”

Kamui took advantage of Garon’s next wide swing by ducking underneath the blade and slashing his knees in retaliation. He fell to the ground. Despite the wound, he only looked agitated. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

This was maddening. Kamui screamed back, “You’re speaking in circles! Which is it? Why didn’t you?”

Garon stood shakily; Kamui half expecting him to pass out. To her surprise, he charged again, cutting into her shoulder before she could move. Kamui yelped and quickly stepped out of the way before he could cut through the limb. It was by sheer luck that he didn’t hit any vital tendons or ligaments; Sakura could heal it later. Kamui tested the Yato in her other grip, making due with her non-dominant hand as blood dripped from her useless arm.

With him so close, she lunged with all her strength, pierced the gaps of his armor, and sent the sword through his stomach. Her opponent let out a bloodcurdling scream, coughing blood onto her as he once again fell to his knees, “Because you - you could get to Mikoto.” Bolverk slipped from his grasp, barely cutting her toes. “Because this was a test. A test to see if you had what it took to rule the dark, grand country of Nohr. And my child,” his gaze bore into her eyes, “you passed.” Kamui twisted the Yato in further; her hands were slick with splattered red. Garon continued to cough, rasp, grate as she stepped back.

The former king of Nohr was smiling in death with what seemed to be the delirious murmurings of a dying man, “Ah, Arete, to be with you again...Perhaps all I wanted was the sweet release of death.”

Sakura’s worried voice piped up as Kamui, grasping her injured shoulder, moved away, “K-kamui, are-are you ok?!”

She looked up and saw her little sister in tears. Kamui tried so hard to smile because this was Sakura, her precious sister who should have never needed to see the war. She replied back, “Yeah - I’m am. It’s only a small injury.”

In addition to Sakura, Ryoma was standing protectively a few feet away but never chose to interfere. He understood it was her fight alone with Garon and it was only honorable to let her finish. Takumi was behind a pillar, a few feet away from Ryoma. He peeked towards her when he heard Garon collapse. His Fujin Yumi was set despite the cold shoulder he had always directed at her. Hinoka was standing next to poor Sakura, mirroring Ryoma. Kamui spoke louder, addressing them and their retainers, “It’s over. Hoshido has won the war.”

Sakura’s rod brushed Kamui, mending her injured shoulder with a cooling breeze. “Thanks, Sakura,” Kamui says before addressing the others, “It’s been a long battle, everyone go on ahead to rest and celebrate.”

“Wh-what about Azura?” Sakura asks.

“I should be well enough to help Azura.”

Sakura looked ready to protest until Hinoka chastised her, “It’s alright; remember that Kamui is a budding healer. She can help Azura and take her to you if anything else is more severe.” Hinoka waved as she started to leave, dragging the younger girl with her; Ryoma and Takumi followed suit. Kamui gave them a comforting smile. Things were alright, right?

Kamui saw the blue-haired girl out of the corner of her eye, carefully maneuvering past the rubble. She turned to greet her, to thank her for the help. That is, until she saw Azura collapse forward onto the ground.

-----

Kamui looks back to Sakura’s crying; she had once thought of it to be of relief. Sakura was staring at her bloodied clothes that no amount of washing could remove. The white of her uniform was stained with the blood of her’s, Azura’s, Garon’s and countless others. It’s proof of her victories. It’s proof of Nohr’s defeat. It’s proof that she didn’t bring peace, that she was the warbringer. And Kamui doesn’t know how to stop. Sakura wasn’t relieved; she was frightened at what her sister had become.

Kamui carries Azura to the entrance of the throne room where the others are waiting. How much of a failure could she be? She was unable to live up to Mikoto’s name; she could still see her dead mother shaking her head sadly yet again. Of course Mikoto would have found a way to peacefully unite the two countries. Her siblings had been so proud of her only a few moments ago; she doesn’t want to see the look of disgust when they realize she killed their adopted sister. Kamui could see it now: Ryoma’s distant eyes telling her that she’s a scam; she isn’t MIkoto’s daughter.

The others all cry when they see Azura hang lifelessly from Kamui’s arms. Ryoma is struggling to maintain composure while Hinoka and Sakura sob visibly. Even Takumi turns his head away. They say condolences to her, to each other, but Kamui is not paying attention anymore. She stumbles out of Castle Krakenburg in a half-dazed, dream-like state.

Kamui boards Hinoka’s pegasus and sees the city as Garon had described, void of residents. She sees the roaring fire, the falling roofs, and the breaking walls. She smells the sulfur, chlorine, and soot that permeates the air. Kamui thinks back to Garon’s words. No, Azura, we didn’t achieve peace. She doesn’t know how Nohr can ever recover as Hoshido continues to prosper. The Nohrians can only cower in fear as brigands raid while the new monarch attempts to bring about a semblance of stability. She didn’t fix anything; it’s nothing like what Mikoto would have wanted.

Kamui still can’t get rid of the thought even by the time they arrive back in Hoshido. Garon’s right; it’s her birthright to rule, like her mother, father, and step-father. She can’t take over Hoshido - she doesn’t want to as Ryoma is destined for the title. Ruling Nohr, on the other hand, could be her chance to let her siblings see she can truly bring peace, that she is worthy of being Mikoto’s daughter.

She knocks on the crown prince’s room late one night, sliding the screen door after she hears his muffled greeting. Kamui asks Ryoma about the surrendered country.

#fire emblem fates #corrin #kamui #azura #ryoma #sakura #takumi #hinoka #garon #birthright #fe cauterize au #mywriting #wordcount: 2215 #blood tw #jho and I were talking about how Birthright's plot kind of trails off by the end and wondered about how we could fix it

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somuchbetterthanthat · 7 years

Note

Enjolras/Grantaire + superheroes?

Superheroes you say. Yes, I reply. IN CANON-ERA. This turned super long and I don’t know what happened?? I have zero idea if this is good, but it is written. Anyway, “in which R is the Damsel in distress, except he does not really get the hero at all.”

Grantaire had never cared much for the Middle-Ages; between an Arthur and an Achilles, he always picked Achilles; the Greek had known their heroes’s flaws, had embraced them fully without taking away their brightness, whereas Middle Ages’s literature had already been too drenched into Catholicism, and every character was too clean and too moral (or, if not, immediately punished) to hold his interest fully. Perhaps this was why, as he rested much too near from Enjolras’s chest, still breathing hard from the unexpected attack, that he felt the need to say:

“I cannot allow this any longer; Soon I will find myself in one of those old castles, waiting for something or somehow to come, frozen in a painting as I watch sadly at a window: I refuse to be a Guenièvre, or indeed any of those good moral women who never did anything except being loved and saved. Ah! The plight of women: suddenly I understand them all - If there was ever a time I envied them, I am biting my tongue today, humiliation has taken over being impressed; besides, if truly we must, am I not rather a Lancelot? Though I supposed I’d make a poor one, staring at Arthur rather than Guenièvre…”

Enjolras, who was still moving from roof to roof, his face stern and determined and as beautiful as ever, did not seem to hear, which Grantaire was quite thankful for - or perhaps he was ignoring him, which was also very probable. Grantaire mourned for the glass of wine he’d left on the table before everything went wrong. He couldn’t have guessed that he was drinking with Royalists, really, but perhaps he should have: no Republican seemed to have any good taste in wine in Paris, which was the real Tragedy of politics, if you asked him.

Of course, most people had stopped asking at all, which wasn’t a thought Grantaire fancied to linger on. He was quite relieved when Enjolras finally stopped, and, very carefully, put Grantaire down, though he still peered at the street under them, doubtful.

“Are we to hide on the roof for the night?” he asked.

Enjolras did not answer; he was staring at a point far ahead of them, frowning lightly. Grantaire thought he might be speaking with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and knowing how long this could take - for, really, this situation happened much too regularly now - he sat on the roof, quite happy that the fear of heights wasn’t one of his lackings, and casted a glance at Enjolras.

People always talked about Enjolras’s hair first, when they spotted him - They talked of how brightly they shined, how soft they looked, and Grantaire could see why they were fascinated, had dreamt a few times, perfectly innocently, of carding his fingers though the curls running down Enjolras’s perfect cheekbones and past his shoulders. But people who stopped at that had no idea who was Enjolras; they merely saw the hero, and barely even that: Grantaire was always moved by the way Enjolras hold himself, tall and assured, the way his eyes turn warm as soon as someone he loved was in a room, or how they shined as he talked of fighting Paris’s evil, below and above.

He could have written poetry, if he had been any good at it, or sentimental enough, on what Paris’s hero truly was: someone who believed that fighting crimes meant finding the man who had just stolen bread to save his family, and offer to pay the baker, and help him financially, through the ABC’s connections. Someone who used violence as little as possible, and hated every moment of it, no matter how necessary he felt it was. Someone who had decided that the real enemy of Paris wasn’t the criminals roaming the street, but the King and his court, who had let evil pester in the lowers districts by doing nothing to help France’s people. Someone to admire; Someone to love.

But Grantaire was not sentimental, and quickly blinked his thoughts away when Enjolras turned to look at him at last.

“Courfeyrac is under the impression that you were lured into this café because they knew I would follow you there once I understood the trouble you were getting in.”

“I fear nothing of Royalists, except perhaps their habits of forgetting to pay a glass to a comrade,” said Grantaire, crossing his arms. “No matter what you think, Enjolras, and despite my obvious lack of God’s gifts like most of you all, I do know how to defend myself; imagine the disappointed faces of those poor lads, If ever you had realized that and had went to help a poor soul instead of appearing like Michael in that room, ready to pass a judgement for a crime to even yet committed! They might have tried to get over their disappointment with me; well, thankfully, I’m not half bad at fighting, and a chair can be easily turned into a baton - which, you know…”

“It is not your personal surety that makes me come each time you end up in a situation like this,” Enjolras cut him, neither warm nor cold. “I have seen you fight; but I’ve also heard you speak, and that’s more of a worry, for it might be a danger to us all.”

The underlying words - I do not trust you Grantaire - hit Grantaire like a slap; he flinched, and was thankful for the lack of stars that night: Enjolras’s hair illuminated merely his face, and not much else.

“A year of knowing each other!” he said, and he’d tried to be light, but perhaps he had drank too much, and it only came soft. “A year, and yet you don’t know I value this somehow more than I value anything -”

“I hear you,” said Enjolras, and suddenly he was almost gentle, though Grantaire wondered if it was merely pity, and he was only hearing what he wanted to hear. Enjolras moved, and sat slowly next to Grantaire, staring at him intensely. “I do not believe you would betray any of us willingly; if there is one thing we share, it’s love for our friends, and I know that. But the drink, Grantaire, makes you honest; probably more honest than you’d like, considering the length you go to never speak your thoughts most times.”

Pity, Grantaire decided, and looked away from Enjolras, only to come back to him a moment later, as Enjolras lay a firm hand upon his. Enjolras’s fingers were cold, but Grantaire immediately felt much too warm.

“If it were merely your words, I wouldn’t worry as much,” Enjolras continued. “I know for a fact it’s quite hard to see the true sentiments behind your speeches. But we’ve heard a few months ago that the Royalists had finally trained their psychics; most don’t care for the ethics that come with their gifts, on the contrary.”

Well, thought Grantaire, loudly enough that Enjolras would hear no matter how careful he was with his telepathy, what is there to add to that?

“For better or for worst, you are part of our family,” said Enjolras, out loud. “And with that comes responsibilities; I don’t ask for much, apart that you start being more careful about whose people you choose to drink with next time.” When Grantaire stayed quiet, he frowned, and rose up, still holding Grantaire’s hand, which forced Grantaire to follow. “Let’s go down,” he murmured in Grantaire’s mind.

Once they were in the street, Grantaire tried to think of something to say, but Enjolras was faster. He let go of Grantaire’s hand, nodded, and told him: “We’re near le Musain. I trust you know how to come home, now.” and after one last look, he was gone, disappearing much too quickly into one of Paris’s little alleys.

Grantaire stood there, a sour taste at the back of his throat, his heart lacking something now that Enjolras was out of sight, and his mind annoyed for it, incapable of deciding what to do, until he heard a whisper, firm and gentle at once, right against his ear;

“You are neither a Guenièvre nor a Lancelot; I trust you to know enough Greek characters to find a better example to follow in their midst. Go home, Grantaire. Sleep well.”

#enjolras #grantaire #otp: light and shadow #what enjolras was trying to say really is that grantaire's feelings for him and their friends is a very very big red spot in his mind #for psychics #also i have a lot of fun imagining royalists as the evil king louis philippe's minions #and indeed louis philippe as a Comic Villain #also i just want them to kiss now i feel sad for grantaire #you could have written it someone might say #why yes i could have i reply but it would have been occ they've barely known each other a year #perhaps when grantaire rises up and says vive la republique and enjolras save them and all les amis of the barricades #then they can kiss #or maybe this grantaire learns to be a revolutionary before WHO KNOWS #anyway #les amis #Les Misérables #ABC stories #anyway this is just me trying to make references to things to feel cleverTM #alas i'm the last thing of a classic or middle ages erudite you'll ever find

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lost-your-memory · 7 years

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semi angsty prompt where kara and alex really talk about the fact kara will out live the humans in her life (specifically cat), maybe alex see's cat without make up and it kinda hits her for the first time the significance of their age difference (that's never been her biggest concern about the relationship) and kara is just like "you think i don't know that?" and they have a really honest convo about it and what kara is really gonna have to face as time goes on

It’s rather short and not that angsty but I figured it would fit anyway. Thank you for this brillant prompt Darling ♥

Alex is wise beyond her years, despite her somewhat fierce temperament.She rushes forward whenever the people she loves are in danger, thinking of a plan in a matter of seconds and putting it to execution right away and sometimes, it’s hard to follow her.She’s a storm and she waltzes in and out but sometimes, sometimes she doesn’t.Sometimes, she just takes a step back and she studies the world around her.She takes in details no one else seems to notice and she’s become something of a walking library of facts, information and unalterable truths, ones she keeps to herself because it’s not important.It never is, until some day, one of those truths she’s never voiced just explode in front of her.

—Friday night, she’s at the Grants for dinner and she’s nursing a glass of Scotch when Carter arrives.He’s tall and strong and the smile of his lips is one of happiness as he says hi to her. She smiles back at him and there’s a voice in her head that wonders «when did he become so adult». She shrugs and asks about college, science, engineering and stuff she knows about. He’s a prodigy, a genius and Maxwell Lord and Lena Luthor only have a few years left to savor their glory before the next Grant barges in their field to take them down.Then, she hears the door opens and closes and soon enough, Cat Grant is making her way across the living room and towards the kitchen, where Kara is making dinner.“Hi Alex.” She says with a wave of her hand but her attention is elsewhere. The smile she’s directing at Kara is tender, soft and loving but it crinkles her face and Alex is suddenly aware of each creases and cracks that break Cat’s carefully applied makeup.She feels like an intruder because it is not something she’s supposed to see but there it is. Age, dripping from Cat’s face, from Cat’s whole body and there’s something in her eyes that tells Alex she’s self-aware.Kara doesn’t seem to notice and Alex adverts her eyes when they kiss, focusing back on Carter. She wonders if Kara realizes, all the implications of dating Cat, truly realizes.—Dinner is full of laugh and love, punctuated by Cat’s sassy comments and Alex’s sneaky comebacks and it’s soft and warm, it’s domestic.Carter yawns and says goodbye to them, leaving Alex, Cat and Kara to sip at their alcohol in the living room. Cat is sat down on one of the couches, Kara laying sideways with her head on her lover’s lap and Alex is facing them, comfortably settled in a pushy armchair. She’s nursing another glass of Scotch and she’s a little dizzy but it’s familiar and good.Cat asks about Maggie and Alex answers with a smile, the conversation flowing very easily between them. It had taken her months to be okay with the idea of her baby alien sister dating the powerful CEO of CatCo Worldwide Media but in the end, she’s come to learn how to like Cat. She wouldn’t admit it out loud but she actually considers the Queen of all media like someone close. Maybe even a part of her little makeshift and carefully selected family.Kara is content to just chime in from time to time but she doesn’t move and Alex is sure she would purr if she was a cat. Alex watches as Cat’s fingers are gently caressing her sister’s blond hair and then, she notices it. She sees the faint brown age spots, the way the veins start to have a certain relief, the delicacy of bones that are not as strong as they once were.Alex looks away and sips at her alcohol. They talk and talk and Alex sees the cracks and flaws of Cat’s body slowly stand out under the dim light of the living room.In the end, Cat leaves after wishing them goodnight.Alex drinks and drinks and she pours herself another glass, aware of her sister’s deep blue eyes on her. The unvoiced truth is caught in her throat and she doesn’t want to let it out but then Kara tilts her head to the left and she knows she can’t keep it for herself anymore.Her voice is soft and gentle but the words are still a blow.“You’re going to survive her, you know?”—Kara refuses to talk about it and she leaves it alone.She knows her sister will come to her once she’s ready.It takes a month and a near-death experience for that to happen.—Kara’s sprawled on her couch, a cushion over her face and Maggie gives her a knowing look before announcing she’s going to the alien bar. Kara doesn’t even try to say she can stay and the lieutenant closes the door behind her.Alex sighs and comes to sit beside her sister, moving Kara’s feet to put them on her lap, so she can stroke them while they talk.“I know she’s going to die, eventually.”The words are strangled and strained with one too many emotions, but Alex stays silent. She is wise and used to be around Kara so she knows, she knows she can’t push her sister. Kara will talk on her own terms.“Don’t you think I know that? I knew, even before we were a couple, that I would outlive her.” Kara says and this time, the tone is a little stronger but the emotions are swirling and spinning in her inflections, in the way she doesn’t really ask the question.Alex hesitates and she grabs one of her sister’s feet to massage it before gently, so ever gently, speaking again.“It’s not just her, Kara.”She hears the sob and she feels it at the same time, her sister’s whole body shaking under the violence of it. She pushes a little harder on Kara’s skin, knowing it helps her to relax a little but she knows nothing can really calm the superhero now.“I’m going to lose everyone all over again, Alex, I know that.” It’s heavy, so heavy in Alex’s ears and she swallows a sob of her own because she needs to be strong for her little sister. She remembers the little girl that came to live with them when she was a teenager, she still dreams of those haunted and devastatingly sad deep blue eyes some nights. She knows Kara still has nightmares where she sees Krypton die, over and over and over again and out of everyone else in Kara’s life, she understands why her sister’s always trying to avoid the subject.“I know, Kara. I know.” She doesn’t offer some lies about it, it would be insulting the both of them and she hates false hope.“I’m going to be there, standing at everyone else’s funerals and … Year after year, people are going to die and I will end up … alone. I will have to deal with … with the aftermaths.” Kara’s voice is low, so low and desperate, Alex clenches her jaw to swallow another wave of sadness.“I know. You will be there because you will honor each and every single one of us, you will be there to celebrate our lives and how lucky we were to have been around you, Kara.” She says and it’s soft and warm and it’s peaceful. She realizes she’s made peace with her upcoming death and that she’s more worried about Kara than anything else, really.“Don’t … Don’t say that.” The words are choked up and Alex reaches to take the cushion off of her sister’s face.Oh, she should have let it where it was.Kara’s deep, deep blue eyes are a stormy torrent and tears are rolling down at their corners, heavily falling on the couch’s fabric underneath her. She’s crying silently and her whole body jerks and jumps from the sheer force of her chagrin.It’s desperate and unavoidable, there’s a tragedy caught in the drenched eyelashes, a faith worse than death shining in the tears and oh, it’s heart-wrenching to see those baby blue eyes reflect all the funerals they will someday witness.Alex sees so many coffins and black clothes, she sees rains and winters, she sees ashes and dust and ruins and she sees a forever that tastes like bittersweet agony.She’s not breathing and it takes her lungs to burn with the lack of oxygen for her to realize she needs to inhale. Kara watches her and there’s a knowing gleam shining underneath all that pain and suffering about a future she’s dreadful about. Alex finally takes a sharp intake of breath and she smiles.She smiles and she whispers “You might outlive us, Kara, but you will never, ever be alone.”She feels Kara’s eyes upon her but she doesn’t face her, staring into nothing as she keeps talking.“Wherever you go, wherever you will be, there will be people to be there for you. You’re a sun, Kara, people are drawn to you and they gravitate around you, you don’t even notice it. It takes some of us to point it out for you to realize how much you’re surrounded.” Her voice is very low and it’s barely a breath but she knows Kara can hear her.“You will have people and even though it won’t be us, we will still be with you somehow. You will have memories and souvenirs and for a while, those will be painful yes. You’re going to feel sad, empty, lost and angry but one day, you will love those images of your past, you will love them fondly. Everyone goes through grief and loss at some point in our life. Yes, you are an alien and you will live longer, you will experience it more than anyone else in the world but … you will also see wonders, Kara. You love the whole Humanity, you have faith in it so you will see it rise and fall, you will see newborns, progresses, kindness and goodness of heart but above all of this, you will witness love, over and over and over again.” Alex says and she smiles again.Kara doesn’t speak and Alex stares at her for a while, noticing the tears are still there, shining in her sister’s eyes but they’re not falling. She assumes it’s a step up.“We will lose mom and then plenty of other people we love. You will lose Cat and then me and then James and Winn and Lucy. Carter too, one day. People are going to leave, because their lives will come to an end but it’s not necessarily bad you know. Living a full life is a blessing itself and besides, we are going to leave a legacy behind us. Children. Achievements. Actions the world will need to remember. You will have to watch over our legacy, guide it, protect it, cherish it.” Alex talks and talks, her voice sounding a little unreal, even to herself.“You will never, ever be alone Kara. Yes, you will suffer grief and loss and it’s going to be hard, I can’t lie and you know it. But life is all about balance and you are going to make sure the world keeps spinning. You are the sun Kara and the world will always, always love you.”She smiles again and it’s a little dreamy. Kara doesn’t speak yet but she seems calmer now, no tears on her cheeks and not even in her deep blue eyes.Finally, finally, Kara smiles and it’s sad but almost peaceful. It’s not bright, it’s not sunny and it lacks hope but it’s something and Alex takes it.Then she whispers “Are you going to stick around until the very end?”Alex smirks and answers “Always.”

#sentences prompt #supercat prompt #kara x cat #supergirl prompt #supergirl ficlet #supercat ficlet #danver sisters #alex & kara #supergirl fic #danver sisters bonding #about kara outliving her loved ones #amazing prompt idea by the way #supercanet

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kusunogatari-a · 7 years

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[ First ] [ @despairinghxpe ] [ Suigin Ryū, Uchiha Itachi ] [ Illness mention, death mention ] [ Verse: Ryū no Ryokan ]

When Ryū releases Itachi, she half expects to never see him again, like so many birds with tended wings given back into the sky.

But corvids are not simply shrewd – they remember those who offer both animosity, and those who offer mercy. Shining stones and glinting glass are rewards crows given kindness have been known to use to repay their debts.

In this case, however, Ryū is given not baubles...but company.

The first time it happens, she nearly feels her heart burst from her chest, the shinobi almost melting from the shadows in the corner of a room. Half a step is staggered back, and she swears she sees an amused tilt to his lips at her fright.

“...back so soon? You've not taken ill again, I hope?”

“No...as of yet, things seem to healing well. Your work is thorough...and appreciated.”

Ryū can't help a lightening of her expression. “...I'm glad. You had me worried.”

A pregnant pause blooms between them and continues to grow.

“...are you...here for more medicine?” Surely he couldn't be out already – she'd ensured his restocking before he'd disappeared.

“No.”

The short reply leaves her feeling like a leg has been swept out from beneath her – like the ghost step at the bottom of a flight. “...then...?”

“There's an allure to this place. It's...quiet. Well-kept. Like an awning out from under rain.” Dark eyes seem to circle around the room, taking in its simplicity.

The simile eludes her for a moment, but understanding then lights in her eyes. “...you're welcome back any time you'd like – I don't mind. Though...you may want to practice caution. Many of my guests are Konoha-born.”

“I am aware. I do not wish to bring you trouble. Perhaps the want is selfish.”

“Most are, simply by nature.”

Itachi pauses, and then allows a small smile. “...fair enough.”

“It's not often we're full-up – perhaps just...give me a whisper of warning next time...?”

The smile grows.

All birds, however, are fickle things. The Uchiha doesn't tarry long.

It's not safe.

But every so often – weeks or months gone by in silence – he simply appears in the corner of her vision, always bearing the same aloof expression. She takes to seeing him even when he's not there, spinning around to catch him, only to turn up empty handed – chasing a specter.

So when the glance is not a trick, there's a wilt of relief in her form.

At times – not satisfied with simply resting – he takes to shadowing her movements, almost like a game as she goes about her day. She can feel eyes upon her back, ignored as she attends to patients, speaks to guests, and shoulders through the monotony of the business that forms the valley's base.

Otherwise, Ryū finds herself joined without a word for tea, the pair of them either sticking to silence, or offering quips with little weight to fill the air. There are quiet strolls through mist-soaked pathways, the air heavy with the scent of hot spring pools. Pale fingers brush along the dew-drenched foliage, rebounding and showering the ground below.

Most of their outings can be dared only at night. And even then, she finds herself on guard, spreading her senses despite knowing he can likely not only do so better than herself, but also be far better at either counteracting, or fleeing without a trace. But there's a protective edge to her person when he's near – a nervousness for his safety that she knows is illogical. He's S-Ranked for a reason. But that doesn't stop her subtle glances into shadows, or the tension at any sound she does not know.

For as...unprofessional as she finds the idea, she's managed to grow attached, in a sense, to the man claimed to have murdered dozens in the cloak of one night. The feeling is a duality that whispers at her in quiet moments, much to her dismay.

Yet she can't help but look to his air, demeanor, mannerisms and speech with a critical eye, searching for deception. Surely someone with his reputation can't hide a blood-craving beast beneath their skin for long.

But the slip ups never come.

At least...not in the ways she suspects.

At times, the Uchiha takes to staring out a window, or into the reflection within his tea, and there's a hint of...something. She calls it melancholy, but it feels so much deeper than that. Something she can't quite read, and which she does not dare to note. Itachi's presence always feels so fleeting – one moment he's there, and the next his visit is only a memory. She doesn't dare attempt to unravel his mystery for fear he'll disappear to evade her questions. At times she feels one wayward breath might send him away for the last time.

And though part of her wonders if she should want for that...the rest of her fears the notion.

Uchiha Itachi is not a simple man. Painting him with the broad brush of 'murderer' feels an injustice to his complexity. She knows he has his secrets, and it's not within her grasp to pry. The curiosity burns like a fevered itch, but she refrains for fear of shattering this peculiar position they've managed to keep in one piece.

So they continue to dance distanced circles around one another – she in an attempt to waylay his leaving, and he to keep her from getting too close.

But in the end, neither are the avians they favor. They are human – flawed, fractured...and curious to ends unknown.

It doesn't take her long to recognize that reading is his favorite proffered pastime. The words that now escape his notorious gaze are something he drinks from her as though parched. Tomes kept along her bookshelf are devoured in droves whenever he's near. And more than walking or talking – things that still retain their distance – does sharing stories seem to bridge the shifting gap between them.

By now, his position is regular – a head upon her lap, dozing with closed eyes and woven fingers along his chest. One hand holds her book aloft, the other sifting through locks of ink in a subconscious, almost comforting pattern. This time, she spins him a tale of star-crossed lovers. Not her usual taste, but one she'd found among her mother's old collection in the wreckage of home. She's yet to touch it until now, but her supply of books beyond the medical is running thin. In the back of her mind, a note is made to inquire about others in her next run for supplies.

A short while later, the story ends in the foreshadowed tragedy, and she lets the cover close. Set aside along the veranda, she gives him an inquiring glance, awaiting his opinion.

“A pity – I found myself hoping things would set themselves right.”

“Mm...that would have been pleasant, but far from expected,” she replies. “If the author had given any more clues, there'd have been little need to read it to its end.”

That earns her a chuckle, and her lips unconsciously curl. “True...”

“Besides, life is rarely so kind. I have to wonder if love so obviously doomed has any reason to start at all.”

Beneath her, he stills.

Still considering the ending, she doesn't notice, shifting without thought to let him rise and sit beside her.

“Is it truly so unthinkable to look for any scrap of happiness where none exists?”

“Mm...maybe not. But isn't it far sadder to let go time and time again – every time they disappear – than to simply be alone?” The irony escapes her. “I suppose it might make the reunions all the sweeter, but so too does it make each parting all the more bitter.”

“Life cannot always be sweet. If it was, how would you ever know it without first knowing the bite of despair?”

Ryū goes silent, considering that. She can feel Itachi's eyes on her, but she doesn't seem to notice the intensity.

“...and it's true. The loss of what makes one happy, when temporary, only intensifies the desire to find it again. It gives a person drive; motivation. A will to seek out what brings a ray of sun through clouds of grey.”

Thoughts broken, she turns to him, only to still as she catches his expression. Locks free of their tie from her attentions spill over his closer shoulder like a stain of ink against his skin. He's turned slightly to angle toward her, lips upturned and a mix of hinting emotions in dark eyes: amusement at her guesswork, and yet...something that makes her feel like a doe before a wolf.

All that moves is her chest as she breathes, uncertainty holding her in place.

...is he...?

There's a slow glide of movement that leans his torso across her own. Her chin dips, lids falling and brow wilting. All the while, he stares from black to grey, flickering from one to the other in search of a wordless reply. Tension mounts, jaw threatening to tremble as she hovers on a cusp of action and inaction. The fluttering in her chest is echoed in her gut, and she seems to struggle with herself.

In an attempt to tip the scales, it's he who moves. A hand glides along from chin to ear, fingers burying in locks so unlike his own. It prompts her eyes to shut, a shaking sigh slipping from her lips. Shoulders fall as rigidity lessens, and she finds herself leaning into the touch.

He takes that concession.

Leaned to find her hiding face, he rises to meet her, just a ghost of touch making her stiffen. But he remains insistent, guiding her until it is she who looks up. A second hand mirrors his first, and tilts her to his whim.

Like a leaf upon a river's current, she follows without fight.

Whispers of lips upon lips slowly grow in demand, uncertainty giving way to buried hunger. Her own fingers soon claw at the front of his yukata, shaking and seeking a grip to reassure that she's not dreaming. That the warmth she feels is real. Any reservations she'd felt are lost beneath the tide that seems to wash all thought aside.

Hands still slipped against her scalp, Itachi eventually lets them part, breath rushing over the flush of her mouth. Eyes open to stare at him, heavy yet unsure.

“...was that...unwise...?”

Mind still jumbled in residual shock, she swallows harshly. “...was it?”

“...I don't know.”

Lungs slowly calming, she averts her gaze for a moment to think. A thousand things clamor for her attention at once, all screaming how foolish she's being.

But a stubbornness sets her jaw, and she brushes them aside.

She is not reckless. She may play life by her emotions, but she still tends to err on the side of caution. Part of her knows that she's simply riding upon newly-birthed euphoria, but...the rest of her doesn't care. Life is short, after all...and in his case, likely even shorter. It's a bitter end she doesn't want to yet consider...so she focuses on another point.

If his life is to be short, somber, and bathed in lies...then perhaps she can be that ray of light.

At least, until his sun sets.

So rather than give him words, she simply meets his lips a second time, of her own volition. Slower. Softer. Speaking silently what she can't bring herself to say.

She can only hope he understands.

I AM SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG Between distractions and then me just...geeking out, it took far longer than it should have xD BUT I hope it’s worth the wait! I tried =‘D

#despairinghxpe #suigin ryū #uchiha itachi #itaryuu #illness mention #death mention #blood mention #ryū no ryokan [ canon verse ]

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